Time’S Disease: Laurent in Chains

TIME’S  

 DISEASE

LAURENT IN CHAINS

R.S. Ebert,  

 revealed by Illiana Rhea

Time’s Disease

Laurent In Chains

Copyright © 2012 R.S. Ebert, revealed by Illiana Rhea

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ISBN: 978-1-4582-0546-9 (e)

Abbott Press rev. date: 08/01/2012

Contents

Introduction Synopsis

Prologue Beginning of the End

{Eurynome}

1.   Price of Freedom

{Kyra}

2.   Lion of Laurent

{Leon}

3.   Great Purge

{Lucian}

4.   Revelations

{Dayvd}

5.   Treason

{Bryan}

6.   Sickness

{Dayvd}

7.   Cadence

{Lucian}

8.   Trial and Tribulation

{Streyer}

9.   The Plan Unfolds

{Thomas}

10.   Complications

{Leon}

11.   Clean Slate

{Illiana}

12.   Roles We Play

{Sera}

13.   White Death

{Dayvd}

14.   A Small Victory

{Lucian}

15.   Amorte’s Curse

{Thomas}

16.   Beneath the Mask

{Kyra}

17.   The Highest Bough

{Medina}

18.   Next of Kin

{Diana}

19.   Tears of Blood

{Dayvd}

20.   Paradise Burning

{Thomas}

21.   Sealed In Blood

{Lucian}

22.   Beloved Death Angel

{Cynestra}

23.   Truth

{Shun}

24.   Falling Rain

{Thomas}

25.   Death’s Embrace

{Lucian}

EPILOGUE

{Thantos}

In loving dedication to:

My beloved other half and ours;

Our family, all wonderful storytellers.

Inspirational thanks to:

P.T.R. ~ B.H.W. ~ T.A.B.

http://www.myspace.com/timesdisease

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http://twitter.com/#!/timesdisease

Time’s Disease is a work of adult fantasy and science fiction. All places, events and characters appearing within Laurent In Chains are purely fictitious and my own original creations. Any resemblance to actual places or comparable events and similar fictional characters or real persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Introduction Synopsis

When a young prophetess is rescued from genocide by a retired veteran, our prolific duo teams up with a sultry bounty hunter who falls for any heroic heart. Old comrades unite amid the chaotic collapse of a world power, and rebel armies form new alliances out of loyalty to the innocent. A princess learns of her true heritage while tribes waken powers of olden. A practitioner of occult science self-fulfills temple prophecy by resurrecting his father from the grave, only to realize the Free People he despises have become his only salvation.

Many believe these inevitable events were written in the stars from the dawn of time, and prophets are merely observant students of precession who study repetitive patterns within endless successions of natural cycles. Others say it is impossible to predict legendary incidents which happened before and are destined to occur again. Civilizations have come and gone, leaving historical warnings carved on ancient walls. Unheeded and forgotten by myth, eras are reborn to rise and fall until there comes an age when every god’s immortality nears its end…

Set in a post-apocalyptic future, Time’s Disease offers the classical allure of mythology with enduring messages very relevant to current events. Futuristic themes revolve around castle landscapes to create this novel recipe. Add a dash of mysticism, sprinkled by romance and topped by spatters of horror, to sup from hope’s cup amid life’s epic tragedies. Partake of this bold tale of action and consequence, as revealed by Illiana Rhea and told by the very characters themselves. Behold, this is Laurent In Chains.

Prologue

Beginning of the End

{Eurynome}

Eurynome pondered the end of eternity, for even a god questions their preexistence and hereafter. She gazed out across a garden of sacred strings which grew into a single tapestry called the Tree of Life. She remembered each ring of time woven within every branch of space, because she had been there for them all. This garden of the gods had possessed many names throughout the ages. Some referred to it as Heaven, Eden, Asgard, Elysium, Nirvana, Utopia, Paradise or Summerland, yet Eurynome called it beautiful. A sun kissed hand raised to her brow of sage-brown hair as she called out to children of Fate in ways only they could hear or heed. Dimensionless words undulated across vast continuums of unseen realms, vibrating over otherworldly planes and unearthly valleys. Being the life force of all living creatures, Eurynome’s utterance came like a tidal wave crashing on ocean cliffs.

I am the present. The Earth goddess’s powerful affirmation stood concrete as all things carved in stone, from the smallest grain of sand to the tallest mountain peak.

I am the past. Her younger brother’s words resounded as the nuance of an echo, twice removed and long since dead. Eurynome watched as tenuous air rippled and parted to reveal a space darker and more frigid than all emptiness beyond the stars. Thantos stepped through wearing black to match his raven hair and goatee. Somber eyes squinted like blue diamonds from his deathly pale face. The left half of his body appeared as a ghostly apparition of transparent gray, and Eurynome believed this to be the Death god’s most nurturing feature. Few immortals were selfless enough to sacrifice half of their noble soul to share eternity with a mortal love.

I am the future. Their sister’s melodic voice came like elliptical notes of heavenly bodies within a cosmic symphony. Astarte descended in her starry cloak of midnight, spiraling down to them like a piece of the night sky falling. Hidden hands rested in opposite sleeves as the goddess of Destiny raised her bowed head. Black hole pupils peered from her stellar hood and her disembodied face hung suspended amid countless constellations.

Next time we shall meet where the tapestry ends and comes apart, sister. Thantos shielded his nocturnal eyes from the light with a shadowy arm.

Have I not told you, my time is precious? You underestimate the value of messengers, Eurynome. Why have you summoned us here on such short notice? Astarte demanded answers as she gazed ahead of the tapestry, searching for raveled snags or future flaws. Her ruddy eyelids almost blinked, but only Eurynome noticed this micro expression. Blind she may be to what had been and what would surely come, yet mother Earth keenly observed all present around her.

To amend what has been broken, sister. Eurynome turned her iridescent eyes to Thantos as she gestured towards Astarte. Our youngest sibling has been doppelganging us to enter the dreams of our followers. She grants visions to our most faithful worshipers, prompting apathetic souls to take inappropriate actions while plaguing nightmares upon all who interfere with her divine plans. Perhaps you might be able to see her true intentions, since she hides her handiwork outside both of our realms.

Is this true? Thantos questioned Astarte. Have you been weaving false threads of existence into the patterns of destiny, to change our Fate? He looked from Eurynome’s opalescent eyes of forest green, to their sister’s bottomless pools of black. Hypnotic quasars within Astarte’s gaze spun brighter for an instant, drawing all into the vortex of her oblivion.

Do you think me a fool, brother? There are rules against divine intervention for a reason. I know the cost of altering future law better than anyone. Astarte skirted truth and danced around facts with mesmerizing riddles. The goddess of fortune had been born a Norn, honestly deceptive and sincerely misleading. She often answered questions with misconstrued questions, which could easily be interpreted many different ways.

Astarte has always exerted her powers when prohibited, Eurynome proclaimed boldly. Someone needed to put a stop to it. Unlike Thantos, the Earth goddess refused to hide her frustrations behind a calm mask of serenity. Forever in motion, Eurynome would never be the glazed surface of a tranquil sea.

You are simply jealous, Eurynome, Astarte accused. You remain grounded by the world you hold in the palm of your hand, yet I ascend above to govern the course of every star sustaining you.

Even the stars must someday die, sister. Their brother’s icy glare threatened to snuff firelight from the brightest of suns, freezing the hottest stars down to their metal cores. He circumvented power whenever his sisters needed to be kept in check, and Eurynome had brought Thantos here for closure.

Even the universes grow old and die to be reborn. Eurynome touched her womb symbolically.

Speak what you will. Neither of you would dare still my hand if you glimpsed what is to come. Galaxies spiraled within Astarte’s colorless eye sockets as she gave a hooded look. She raised her palm up for them to read and smiled smugly, knowing neither could interpret what the stars had written. Clandestine conclaves were always uncomfortable and she had clearly overstayed her welcome. With a flourishing sweep of her arm, Astarte veiled her face in a draping sleeve of vanishing midnight. She spun a web of galactic filaments, and then cast herself into the heavens from whence she came.

Next time you decide to wake me in the dead of day, please see that you have good reason. Thantos yawned as underworld shadows rose up from below. Lost souls swirled about their father while deathly shades wound round about him. Then Thantos slunk back into a sunken pocket of slumber which lie buried in lightless blight. Eurynome stood alone once more in her garden of paradise. She looked down upon the worlds she adored with her whole heart and anguished for her beloved Earth.

Of all the planets, why had Astarte targeted her most favored? Humankind seemed no more than diminished denizens within an integral indigene of long lost demigod heritages. Oblivious as a colony of ants, children of the gods were about to have their hill kicked over and none could see it coming. Eurynome felt the winds of change shifting all around humans, but she could not sense the source. She envied Astarte’s ability to foresee the future as she looked down upon her tiny world with wonder. How fast would humanity evolve if the foundations of civilization became shaken to disorder? If pushed to the brink of extinction, could the species push back and survive?

Small as their civilizations were, mankind had always viewed their world as something to conquest whenever insurmountable circumstances arose. The human race believed it could conquer all, including the finality Eurynome feared most. Corporeal worlds teeming with life seemed of little consequence to a Death god who ruled over the unclaimed souls these places left behind. Astarte usually turned a blind eye to earthly matters as well, yet something had recently drawn Astarte’s gaze to the physical realm. Eurynome could see her sister’s signature written within storms and etched upon every form of misfired magic. She could feel Astarte answering profane prayers, guiding some inexplicable illness to ravage mortal lands like an untamed pestilence. What motive could there possibly be, for turning fortune’s wheel upon its head?

From above, all human perils seemed distanced and far away. Eurynome’s eternal divinity brought ages of insight yet none of this knowledge would be of any use in a forgetful world of mortality. Eurynome placed a finger upon her beloved planet and channeled her power into the miniature clouds below. They swirled as if caressing the warmth she would surely bring. Closing her eyes, she began banishing the fast approaching darkness on Earth’s fated horizons. Heat burned within her belly as she focused on directing her powers. Divine intervention in human affairs had always been strictly forbidden yet Eurynome felt obligated to right Astarte’s wrongs. Day and the Innocent had been set in place to pivot around her key player, though all purposes were unforeseen and unfulfilled…

Eurynome knew there would come a time when even Thantos would not be able to escape Astarte’s wrath, and she laid the groundwork for his salvation now. She sent out her message in a bottle of time, knowing it would arrive when needed most and reach only the necessary ears: You were once willing to die for love, so why will you not live to love? she whispered into the dark, knowing this message pertained to her now; as well as to others later. Remember this when the moment comes, it is not your time… You are still needed, for your job is not yet done… You must return or your love will die. Return before it is too late, too late, too late… This message carried on waves of air, already thick with storms of wicked misfortune…

Holding destiny’s severe weather at bay had never been an easy task, even for the All Mother of everything physical. Calming fated storms wore Eurynome down yet she knew this might be her last and only chance. She began feeling every bit her age, the eldest of three siblings born of a trinity cleaved of the highest Order. A sad smile lingered on her weary lips as she pushed back the darkness of restricting clouds in search of a silver lining. A single ray of golden sunlight pierced the never ending overcast to shine through beclouded heavens. The suffocating world breathed a sigh of relief as it drank down the daylight it had been starved of. In this single instant, Eurynome reached out to touch the one person upon her favored planet whose influence could make a difference.

It had been many millennia since any god had walked the mortal globes with humans, to visit in flesh and blood. Most deities feared losing the wisdom gleaned over eternities past, even if this lapse in memory only spanned one finite lifetime. Unlike other gods, Eurynome had always been willing to temporarily sacrifice all of her immortality for the sake of preservation. Eurynome prayed she would not arrive too late as her every memory and experience flitted away into a timeless wrinkle which death and destiny had both forgotten. Transforming herself into a corporal focal point felt like raining her powerful presence into the weakest cup. How could something so immeasurably immense fit into a vessel so infinitesimally small? How much of herself could she pour into this fragile shell before the unborn mind shattered? A broken tool of the gods would be a useless instrument indeed, yet for the sake of all life Eurynome knew she needed to be born again. She felt as though she were being ripped to shreds, whirling into a vacuous abyss as she became sucked into the dread sink of perishable creations.

Eurynome and a mortal fetus became one as prodigious quantities of dark energy exploded outward from her favored Earth, sending bursts of foreshock throughout every level of the ethereal planes. Ineffable threads snapped to sever ties which displaced chaotic matter from all transient elements beyond. Instantly Astarte’s power flash-forwarded like a great nest of cosmic serpents uncoiling. Swift retaliation struck out with cords of dark matter, curling and constricting against terrors apocalyptic enough to affright the blood of gods. Interwoven knot work slithered like tentacles to hemstitch an imperceptible tear which breeched the celestial fabric of every Universal constant.

Astarte could not move fast enough to keep her older sister from slipping between openings which desecrated the most sacred of veils. Eurynome could already feel her tiny heart beating during those last maternal screams of pain, as mother and child shared the birth pangs which formed life’s unbreakable bonds. Tiny lungs full of womb water choked to breathe their first breath of frigidly dry air and Eurynome suddenly felt very vulnerable. Never before had she been trapped in such a frail and tiny body prone to infantile sufferance. The light of the world burned like blurring tapers as tear streaked eyes blinked to see their first face. Then Eurynome forgot herself completely as mother and babe engaged in the most meaningful form of human contact. This is the way survival had always been and the way it forever would be, but why? Where had existence gone between those moments of departure and rebirth? Even the gods had come to view death as a punishment rather than a result of change, yet the Earth mother knew better.

Astarte claimed all events were written in the stars from the dawn of time, and that her prophets were merely observant students of history who studied repetitive patterns within endless successions of natural cycles. Thantos believed it impossible to predict inevitable events which happened before and were destined to reoccur, yet Eurynome governed over all historical legends carved upon ancient walls. Temple ruins left behind unheeded warnings for future generations; yet countless civilizations had come then gone and met their end to begin anew, reborn as every previous era, to rise and fall again. Gods believed themselves to be superior and more advanced than humans, but they were no different in many ways. Titans of old had also carved their memories in stone, only to be lost in myth when they went to their giant graves. Forgotten were all immortal creations, eternal for a season, in an age when every god suddenly met their beginning of the end…

Chapter 1

Price of Freedom

{Kyra}

Autumn arrived crisp as ever, with billowing clouds floating low on red horizons. Glimmering dawn cast elongated shadows with whistling winds unhinging colorful leaves from half naked boughs. Turning foliage falls in waves, tossed over rolling hills to paint shorelines of crystal clear lakes and translucent streams. Golden green fields surround waterways in a patchwork quilt of wheat, corn, orchards, vineyards and other yield awaiting harvest. Farmstead homes and ranches dot the countryside with chimneys yawning gray plumes of smoke as curtains are stretched back to welcome the sun. Tillers of the earth are the strong back of this nation called Laurent, and their king’s respect has recently eased life for all who work the land.

Children listen in as parents discuss new interest restrictions placed on farmland loans, and affordable insurances recently made available by actuaries. Farmland families recall the recent years of flood and drought which claimed their crops, and all agree future generations should be left with livelihoods capable of providing posterity. Few want to touch on stories circulating about the unknown sickness, however. People say it has already ravaged several outlying towns and villages yet no one knows how it spreads or why it appears. There are whispers of entire households dying in their sleep without any warning symptoms whatsoever. Many blame the tribal savages who dwell outside their nation’s borders, yet residents of the province Laurentz often sniff at such gossip. Communities stricken by physical ailments live in poorer provinces, after all. Rumors are but hearsay without proof and life simply moves on in their nation’s capital.

Old timers would much rather gripe about modern architecture being far too large and tall for their antiquated tastes. Today’s enormous buildings were never built to last like sturdy structures erected by their founding fathers. Town elders reminisce about the good old days when thriving metropolises of squat constructs were less clustered behind much thicker fortress walls. They are first to tell how overpopulation threatens to burst urban seams once more, as they mention Tower Prison being the only remnants of any original wall. Guards warn outsiders to stand clear of the iron gating, for a stagnant moat of sickly green surrounds the tower with a rancid stench. Breathing causes vomiting while contact produces rising boils which burst like fruit left to rot on the vine. Anyone unlucky enough to ingest such brackish backwater would certainly die a slow and agonizing death.

The infamous Tower Prison is just one of many historical wonders people come from near and afar to see. Being the largest center of commerce in the known world, all roads lead to Laurentine. With its many marvels, this capital city’s popularity produces more tourism and trade than any other. Ships of every kind and size float anchored on indigo waters of the River Laurent, which snakes beneath twin Solus Bridges. Early morning deliveries from abroad draw crowds at all three gates. Most visitors arrive by the East Lion’s Gate and are greeted by enormous statues of marble lions roaring down from both sides. Local residents avoid tourist traffic by using the West Gate, with its limestone archway covered in vines. Freight arrives by way of the south, hence this granite gate is known as the Trader’s Gate.

Being the least ornate, it lies between rented huts and tiny hovels amid ramshackle shanties. Weathered beyond repair, dilapidated shacks are strewn along small lanes and narrow alleyways. It is said you can buy anything in this part of town, if you are willing to pay the price. Few yards or trees exist at this edge of the city, yet sidewalks and back streets allow room for all to walk freely. The poverty stricken who dwell here reside in a place referred to as the lion’s underbelly. Many go without or barely eke by, frequenting the temple’s soup kitchen to keep from starving. The employed often work more than one job while beggars stand on street corners with their hand out. Most paupers and panhandlers have no disability or handicap, other than some self inflicted mental or physical illness due to addiction. All have well-honed sob stories of situations beyond their control which completely prohibit them from performing the most menial labor, yet even the truest of these tales are often highly exaggerated.

Further inland from these less fortunate outskirts, narrow roads broaden into hustling streets which are crowded even at night. Any store you can think of, with every imported product imaginable, can be found in the market district of renowned Coppery Corner. Peddlers from every province and all walks of life come here to sell their goods and wares. People say, If Coppery Corner does not have it, then it must not exist yet. Anything a person can dream of or think up is just waiting to be created by smithies, tailors, shoe makers, jewelers, barbers or hair dressers in specialty stores, custom boutiques, gift shops, mini-marts, shopping centers, grocery retailers, outfitters chains and trading posts. Sprawled out as far as the eye can see are lodges, guild houses, inns, bars, gambler’s pubs and topless taverns with public bath houses or risqué spas surrounding Laurentine Cabaret.

The middle class employed within this hub often purchase property in walking distance of town square. Some of their well maintained homes are in need of a little paint, yet every house is unique and different from the others. Neighbors within this sector are often charitable peeps who sympathize with the have-nots. As they pass each other on the streets they talk of those who flaunt money yet do not have it, for the moneyed refuse to walk anywhere. The wealthy are usually born into luxury and speak of how others should work harder and risk more for success, though few have ever wagered everything or worked a day in their life. They live in the northernmost neck of the capital because there is no gate in this low-crime sector. Royal infantry wearing white sashes across breastplates stand watch at every gated community, patrolled by temple knights with two swords on their back.

The most affluent merchants can afford homes with a view of Temple Laurentine, located within the lion’s heart. Facing due east in all of its extravagant grandeur, it remains the most elaborate piece of architectural ingenuity ever assembled. Pilgrims come from all over the known world to gaze upon the enormous cathedral of white marble shingled in polished gold. Temple curators house the oldest statuesque monuments and paintings treasured behind sacred walls, though their true wealth lies underground in archived records of antediluvian codices. Ancient texts, not too fragile or brittle to see the light of day, are kept above ground in a domed collection. Only priests have access to the temple’s public book rooms, yet the richest congregation members make hefty contributions to view the library apse. A single glimpse is said to be an extremely religious experience and additional tithes earn a tour of the temple’s museum gallery. All hanging garden grounds are reserved for regulars who offer up large donations on a daily basis. Holy fragrances of rare flowers create an aromatherapy guaranteed to lift any human spirit and heal any wounded soul.

Try as one might, no gardeners are able to replicate the countless tiers of exotic vines draped about dangling terrariums. Every heavily landscaped property north of Temple Laurentine appears as a miniature replica which pales in comparison to such formal gardens. Only the richest of castellans can afford the spacious lawns and castle greens gracing this beautiful quarter known as the lion’s mane. Not a single crack or rut can be found in any stonework and many of the roads here are as wide as courtyards. Royal guards in full body armor stand at attention along every street, with golden sashes draping from left shoulder to right hip over reflective breastplates of gleaming steel. Curriers come and go at leisure while everyone walks with purpose, as if on a mission. Men and women employed within these keeps act as though they have somewhere they need to be, and they needed to be there yesterday.

Cradled upon the lion’s head is a city within the city. Crowned by the majestic Castle Laurent, palace towers stand tall and proud with ivory spires scraping the clouds. Deep-battered plinths slant every saltstone wall, peaked by battlement merlons and pointed embrasures. Octagonal towers with cross-shaped arrow slits and rounded roofs grace all corners of inner and outer walls alike, with twin sets of flanking barbicans lining the only castle entrance beknownst to the public. This castle gateway is built like a hall, with dual portcullises ready to box off intruders in event of a siege. Golden flags emblazoned with white lion’s heads fly high atop every parapet, heralding the lineage of this noble land. Flapping banners catch the daylight in a dazzling array of shimmering brilliance, as if the sky were built to frame such opulence.

Life is richer, yet appears far less grand south of Laurentz. Rolling hills simply give way to green plains and shrubby grasslands referred to as Freeland, for it is a state given back to the Free People in good faith. Glens and dales taper off into wooded meadows until all is swallowed by Tarahan deserts of petrified wastelands. Just outside Laurent’s southern provinces, and skirting the barren edge of no man’s land, this independent reservation is home to all who claim their autonomy. Tribes without a country set up camps along forested shorelines of a Nameless Lake, untaxed and unbound yet unprotected by Laurent’s laws. Called rovers by some, these nomadic tribes know themselves only as M’hana or True Seekers.

Though tribal folk have no written languages, some ancient texts refer to them as Terra Merita or People of the Deserving Earth. It is a fitting name for people who live in another world and travel with the migrant herds they hunt. Viewed as vagabonds with no permanent residence, they avoid destructive wastefulness which accompanies the sickening stench of urban decay. Littering filthy streets with stinking garbage and dumping chamber pots out house windows seems disrespectful and barbaric to natives who live harmoniously with everything. Unlike the disease carriers of Laurent, True M’hana respect the land as a living entity and refuse to scar or injure the marred earth they love.

Their celebration of life makes it hard to believe the M’hana are a threatened race or dying breed. Night falls and the enormous flickering of a central bonfire makes their camp come alive with the beauty of a carnival atmosphere against peacefully wooded backdrops. Pointy shadows of children’s teepee tents stretch outward like wigwam spikes, circled by a colorful ring of Conestoga wagons arranged for parents to retire in privacy. Ethnic music fills the air with cultural merriment as festive natives dance to lively tunes. Women with silk scarves over black hair and men in fringed leather sing ancient melodies in the old tongue of a lost language forgotten by time. Dressed in colorful feathers with dyed suede and ruffled silks, elders do a spiral dance around their tall campfire with methodic deliberation. They step as though every movement is an archaic part of some essential ritual none could fully remember.

They know how hard it is to salvage the mysticism of eons past. Every millennium forgets the knowledge of ages before, yet these people try harder than any to remember. Younger youth dance more sporadically with juvenile jubilee, for they have lost interest in the conservative customs of old. Outdated tales and practices steeped in superstition have been watered down or modified to fit their modernized lifestyles. The days of ancestral elders ruling the land are gone now and few can recall why ghost dances are even necessary. No matter how broad the age gaps, all agree upon the spirited reason for every season. Each evening is a new celebration, but this particular eve brings much partying for all True M’hana.

Upon this hallowed night of the triple goddess moon, they seek answers from the goddess of Destiny and the Earth mother while thanking the underworld bride for paying homage to their fallen. Intimate relationships with nature enable them to practice the most primeval forms of spirituality. M’hana know the world belongs to only itself. All who claim land take what is not theirs, thus forfeiting their ability to harness the energy which flows through all life forms. Human beings simply borrow the dust from which they came until they return it again, and any inexplicable powers are lend likewise. Unpretentious art forms often appear as grand miracles to outsiders, yet natives demystify the unknown with commonplace understanding.

Supernatural frauds and false prophets may imitate tribal magic with parlor tricks, yet none can truly duplicate the birthright of paranormal phenomenon bread and borne exclusively to their native heritage. It is no secret; the True race contains a long lineage of great healers and prophetesses who speak with spirits to divine the future. Some say talking to animals is also within their bloodlines. Others whisper of a remarkable talent called unfeeling fire, yet one unprecedented gift graces their people like no other. Only M’hana have rumors of it, for this ability is extremely rare and few know of it. Casting illusions with glamour is an ability none have seen in their culture for twenty turns of the earth. How many more times would the leaves sprout green and turn to fall before such powers resurfaced?

All the seasons of eternity may never bring back such lost abilities, for tribal powers seem to diminish with every passing generation. Elders who witnessed firsthand accounts of glamoury are now spirited, buried within Earth mother’s womb and held by Death’s embrace until released for rebirth. Living eyewitnesses are too old to trust with memories failing, yet even they claim such abilities often skip generations. They elaborate in length about how mythical powers of olden require unrivaled expectations and even greater responsibility. Since such aural speeches bore all little ones, the art of illusion is almost forgotten save a handful of lullaby songs or bedtime stories.

Tricks of light can be conjured by several gifted chieftains who are often scoffed by elders who have seen better in their younger years. The few illusions cast now usually appear as little more than a momentary movement seen out of the corner of one’s eye for a fleeting instant. Even the best of these minor illusions disappear shortly after you turn to look at them. They can be used as a fascinating distraction when cast creatively, and creativity has always been a tribal strong point. Good with crafts and always innovative, their unique inventions have become quite popular in smaller towns. It is said they can fix anything for they love to tinker with everything mechanical.

Capable of customizing any specifications, their fine craftsmanship is renowned by many who do not look down upon their kind. Their hunting weapons are unmatched in quality, as are the superior beasts which pull their covered wagons. These unshod herds of wild horses often graze just outside their firelight. Some claim the steeds have been broken to be equestrian, yet only a M’hana would be brave enough to harness one. Though left untied these beasts never stray, for they will never be gelded and are always provided for. Tribal natives feed them in the winter months when harsh snows bury all grasslands, for M’hana oaths hold all life sacred and horses are considered to be the most sacred creatures ever created.

This is why it is against tribal law to shoe, bridle or mount horses against their will. Music and dance are acquired tastes which their steeds have grown accustomed to. They pull the Free People’s wagon trains in step to song because the tribes never treat them like beasts of burden. Natives are the only humans who still speak their tongue and share a mutual respect for the range they roam together. True M’hana make the sweet grass grow greener and all horses are proud to protect the people who care for them. Upon their grazing pasture lies a large and lone tent which sits away from all others. Unlike the smaller teepees of brown which circle their inner encampment, this red wigwam is made of thicker canvas with a tighter weave and sturdier lodge poles lined by strings of totems.

Being close to the forest line causes it to appear swallowed by an expanse of towering trees which creek and sway in the evening breeze. If not for a blazing campfire, the brightest lodge would not be seen at all amid autumn leaves. God moons will soon mark another white season of slumber, with nourishing blankets of snow tucking all colors but evergreen to sleep. More acorns and pinecones litter the ground to warn of bitter storms approaching. Bees prepared by building their hives higher in the treetops to avoid drifts, for whispers of blizzards smudge every storm front. Northern winds foreshadow the coming of a lingering winter, rapping at reddened lodge flaps. A chieftain tucks his daughter into bed, as Kyra demands answers. Why must she sleep now? The ritual has not even begun yet, and she wants to see her father do the ring of fire. He promised last year that she could see him shoot the flaming arrow!

Brug, n’dora? Say’no me’voy ay’ca. Ad’say gama i’voy fe’soha!

No’ac, Kyra. Trevor firmly objected with questions of his own. Why had they named her Bright Horse when she dug in her stubborn hooves like a dim goat? He had promised, but long before everyone sensed ill fate abrew. After a red sky this morning and blood on the goddess moons tonight, all signs pointed to unpredictable events. He did not want to herald alarm, but he betided more than unexpected rain which froze overnight. Another raid of thieves or a freak accident might be afoot. He had been wrong about dr’auari and wasy’chu before, but he must keep his progeny safe at all costs. Sera said Kyra would take his place to lead their people some day. Their daughter’s spirit in magic had grown quite strong for a youth her age, and he spoke of these matters now. Brig cog’at. Sera’say Kyra qi’malay al’mahana.

Me? Kyra’s eyes widened with surprise as she pulled a bison blanket over her gaping mouth, being modest and bashful all at once. Trevor’s shoulders shook with silent laughter as Kyra pulled a bison blanket over her head to peek out with one eye before covering up.

Swi nom’por. Swi fate voy’dora. Trevor told Kyra his words were true as the sky is blue, troth foretellings from the Seer’s dreams drew. Angel’s voice chimed in like the softest rustling of mid-summer leaves outside their wigwam door.

Brig’ra Kyra doa’ad nom’say. Eurynome’ta Kyra’ta tar’ad arom. Sera claimed the morning she birthed Kyra, the sky swirled overhead and the storm clouds parted as if the goddess herself were smiling upon them. The wicked storms ended that day and many still say it is Kyra’s smile which keeps them at bay. Sera entered their tent with extraordinary grace. Her every step appeared like a suggestive movement to some mundane dance which hinted toward erotica. She remained true to her name, an Angel and a vision of beauty even when performing the most ordinary tasks.

Kyra giggled as she peeked out from her parent’s matrimony blanket. She loved the way all her relations peered into each other’s eyes. The looks blood kin gave excluded all others and left no room for company. Her mother and father would always be young lovers at heart, forever new to one another. She watched them hold each other as if they were the only people in the world, until they smiled down at her. When Kyra saw them cheek to cheek this way, she knew their world revolved around her. Parental pride filled their eyes to hide sadness, as if it hurt their hearts to look at her. She once heard her father tell her mother how beautiful Sera looked. He said it hurt to look at her, but this hurt seemed like a different kind of heartsick.

It is time. Sera spoke white as she reached into a hidden pocket of her vest.

Everyone is assembled. I know. Trevor sighed and Kyra frowned. Why had they both switched over to the language of Laurent? Did they not realize she understood what they said?

No, I mean… It is time, tonight. Sera handed her husband a medicine bundle wrapped in meteoric silk. The metallic scarf appeared to be part of a silvery-golden shroud, yet even the tribe’s best metallurgists had no knowledge of any alloyed ore capable of being woven.

Already? Trevor asked. But Bright Horse is too young to be a key keeper.

The protector sits among us, Sera replied.

The huntsman? Trevor asked. Sera nodded as Trevor touched the matrimony scarf about his neck. I told the tribe of your dream, but they say it is not our way to bear arms in violence.

And yet we will, for our young braves have already lost their way. Sera reached through the peak hole of Kyra’s blanket to tap the tip of her daughter’s nose. They have lost their faith, but tonight’s ring of fire will make everyone a believer again. Sera’s voice filled with conviction as she closed her eyes and trailed both hands through the air. Her fingers traced over invisible branches of possibility within paths of forked prophecy. Trevor may be the tribe leader but he always deferred to his beloved wife, wiser than all realized and stronger than even she herself knew. Her powers were great as her life would surely be, yet she went unnoticed by working her subtle magic behind the scenes. Those touched by her power seldom knew their strings had been pulled by such crafty hands yet all effected by Sera’s gift walked away better for it.

You could wake the faith of the dead if given the tools and time. Trevor touched Sera’s face with worshipful admiration. Even a deaf man would believe he could hear, if you told him it were true.

We shall meet again in this life and I shall guide you to the next, so we might find each other between and after. Sera pulled his hand to her lips and kissed it with a look of pure love and devotion in her dove-gray eyes. Near black hair brushed his cheeks when she leaned into him, and he sighed. Their lips pressed gently as they locked eyes, frozen in the moment. Kyra pulled blankets back over her head in a coy and candid manner. Many wondered how the chief and his wife still managed to take each other’s breath away after all these years. Even Kyra marveled at the way her mother felt each kiss with every fiber of her being. Even as Sera kissed her daughter’s forehead through the blankets, it seemed as though Sera were giving Kyra a first kiss or sharing their very last. Every one of Sera’s kisses left you feeling warm fuzzies inside which perked up the senses, including ears. Kyra’s head tilted as Sera whispered secrets to her father. Her mother spoke of a medicine man’s medicine man, hidden within a valley where Cro’con would be reunited with elder’s elder El’syad.

Falling Rain believes it is a contraction? Is Crow Counter sure? Trevor whispered back. Neither of them realized their daughter had learned what they were saying long ago.

I am certain Dayvd Rhea is the Ray of Day that shines upon my visions. Sera’s voice was hushed as she replied. It is important that we keep him here, lest the prophecy we conceived be stillborn.

Shouldn’t we send her with him now? Trevor spoke quietly.

No, Forest. Her grandfather says she must see what comes to pass so that she lives to complete her destiny. Sera tried to hide her worry with a motherly smile of concern, and this made Kyra frown. Grandfather, what grandfather? Why were they being so sneaky tonight?

How can you and our fathers be certain this protector will help her shape the fate of our people? Trevor whispered back.

History can be unwoven surely as tainted memories fade with time. Sera’s fingers moved through the air in wave-like patterns. Though our people’s past is carved on diamond infused diorite, even the strongest stone will not stand forever. All great mountain chains eventually fall into the volcanic oceans which birthed them, for processions of planets demand it. Our future is only as stable as this olden sod we trod, for every sun alters its cycle when the star mother changes seasons. Any naked eye can clearly see our dark rift rising higher on each morning horizon, and the whole Earth will quake in fear once more when our sun and god moons all rise dark again.

Another solar and lunar eclipse in the same day? Trevor’s eyebrows raised.

As when my greatest grandmother fled with freedom’s key, Sera nodded. We prophetesses observe only the most likely paths and destinations within every life journey, but no single outcome is more definite than star-mother’s contractions. To tame them is to catch a serpent dragon by its feathered tail, before it swallows the sun.

Then let us make it so, Trevor concurred.

Like the ever changing trajectory of comets, Sera elaborated. Stubborn trailblazers are difficult to read, because they react irrationally to being read. Willpower and inadvertent influence hinge on all who inevitably lead others away from destruction, during circumstances beyond everyone’s control. Their grassy roots stem from unborn seeds of action, to sprout twigs which push old boughs from withered limbs until all fall to feed undergrowth. Their unpredictable branches fork sporadically and travel in unlikely patterns, but mark my words. A third of all stars we now observe will again fall from the sky when the sunny old lion rolls on its back and planets run amuck once more.

You have your ways, Angel. Trevor winked at her. Persuade our hunter guest to stay for tonight’s festivities. I like this protector. Your Light of Day has an honest face and he is an excellent fletcher who brings rare feathers from the north. Tell him I have designed some even smaller springs for his traps. That should keep your Day Ray loitering about, if our dancing maidens don’t do the trick. Kyra giggled under her blankets and Sera patted their daughter’s head. Her mother’s hand lingered upon Kyra’s cheek, as if not wanting to let go.

Good night, my wee baby moon-beam, Sera whispered as Kyra peeped out. We should not keep our elders waiting, husband. Trevor gave a slow nod as their people’s greatest seer departed. Four-hoofed creatures snorted steamy breath as they stomped and pawed restlessly outside and Trevor listened to their conversations, for the silly steeds always made him smile when they spoke of Sera. Trevor had been elected chief because he remained fluent in the language of forest animals, while casting illusions. What would a child born of such powerful bloodlines be capable of? Kyra sensed unease as both parents choked on goodnight’s and well wishes. Sera now fell to her knees outside their lodge with hands clasping her face.

N’i dora’feli de’ac loi’d? Sera asked why she must lie with the wolf who destroys the world in order to save it, then cursed fate as she pulled herself to her feet. Her next statement came with the strength of a woman who could smile in the face of adversity and hold onto hope in the darkest hour. Me’lil say’Brig. A’at me… My life is yours Mother, guide and empower me now… Kyra listened as her mother’s footsteps hurried off to find her Light of Day. She could feel her father grinning down at their only child and his smile could not get any bigger. If he held this expression all night his face would certainly hurt come morning. Trevor stood basking in a chieftain’s pride, yet Kyra’s thoughts remained haunted by his secret conversation. Unpleasant topics were always hard to forget and easy to remember, especially when her father went back on his word.

Even when he broke promises, Kyra revered and respected the way Trevor held himself tall and proud. Her father had the admirable aura of a leader when wearing the simplest clothing, yet tonight his posture looked strangely defeated. Trevor’s side of the family had always been powerful and dignified while Sera’s remained extraordinarily overlooked. Changing predestined events went unnoticed until it brought about dastardly consequences. Punishments worse than death were suffered by all who stilled or forced the hand of fate. Sera said it would be easier to swim upstream with wrists bound, than to fight your calling. This is why the gods placed people like Trevor in the world, to put smiles on the sourest faces. He could be seen around the camp casting small illusions to make children laugh while joking with elders to lighten spirits. Many agreed Trevor would forever be the best chieftain their people had ever known, and Kyra had no doubt.

I’ve got your nose. Trevor spoke white to test her linguistic skills, tugging her nose through the blankets. You had better come out and get it before I forget to put it back. Maybe I should wear it. It is a bit small, but it is prettier than mine.

Dad, that’s silly. Kyra peeked out and her nose really did appear to be between his fingers. Trevor appeared startled as he pretended to reattach the illusionary nose before his finite glamour faded. Crinkled lines in the corners of his eyes appeared vexed despite his proud smile. Kyra had never seen her father this serious before. She knew her tribe’s people were troubled by news of raids in the north, but those lands were far from their Freeland state.

So now you know, and knowing is the first half of every battle. The second half requires doing, but what you must do is take action by way of inaction. Trevor opened silky medicine bundle to produce a dagger with a twilight blue crystal mounted on its hilt butt. The knife had been smelted of rare ores which elders spoke of in whispers. Kyra had never before seen the mythic metal which shown brighter than polished steel in daylight. Like the meteoric silk which housed it, she knew the legend of how it grew dark as night in the shadows. A broken arrow had been engraved on one flat edge of the ripsaw blade with two pictures beneath it. One featured a woman handing a man an arrow while the next depicted the man breaking it. When Trevor flipped the dagger over, Kyra saw a key engraved on the other side of the serrated blade. Below it was a picture of the woman spitting into her hand that held the broken arrow, and the forth panel showed her backhanding the man with her fist holding the broken arrow. Trevor rewrapped the dagger and placed it under Kyra’s pillow with a fearful glint in his golden brown eyes.

I thought we did not use weapons of war, Kyra said. She looked almost nothing like him with dove-gray eyes marking her as a prophetess. She had her mother’s long neck with a slender frame and straight, dark brown hair which looked near black in this light.

All keys forged by Bacchu, are weapons. Now promise to stay out of sight tonight, and next time I will make sure you sit right up front. Tonight you must swear a tree oath upon your very life, be true to your word or vow to fall upon this knife, Trevor replied. His skin appeared the rich color of new fallen foliage, while Kyra had her mother’s washed out complexion. He likened their skin to the shade of stubborn leaves which clung through the winter, only to fall when the budding sprouts of spring pushed them from their boughs. As striking as such features were, Kyra inherited desirable traits from her father as well. She had Trevor’s almond shaped eyes, with a downward swoop in the lower lid which made them wider than most of her people’s. She also acquired his chiseled nose and extremely pronounced high cheek bones with exotically thin lips and arched eyebrows. Other characteristics linked them and Kyra always demonstrated these qualities at the most inopportune moments. Trevor shook his head when Kyra pushed out her chin to mimic his stern expression. She sat up straighter in a pose she had surely rehearsed, with the same sincerity he portrayed when addressing their entire tribe. She now spoke the language of Laurent with the utmost maturity.

Father, you always promise me next time. I am nine full turns of the earth old, and there are babes who have only seen three turns of the leaf at tonight’s ritual. Must I be forced to wait thirteen more moons? The look on Trevor’s face was the only answer Kyra needed. She had impressed him, but his answer remained the same. You are so unfair! Kyra crossed her arms immaturely and slumped into her pillows.

We will discuss matters tomorrow. I am needed now. Do you understand? He had to be firm in his decisions but never too proud to admit mistakes. No matter how wrong Kyra made him feel, Trevor knew he chose right on this night. A good chief never let conflicting emotions cloud their better judgment. Kyra’s eyes rolled as her shoulders sagged with disappointment. It had always been difficult for her to understand the depth of her father’s responsibility.

So mote it be. Is this about mother’s nightmare? Kyra asked. Where the goddess of Destiny drank from fate’s caldron of knowledge to see if stars lied about a final unmaking, before reweaving the tapestry of existence to alter the outcome of forbidden revelations?

You should not have overheard those things, Trevor’s thin eyebrows arched higher as he blinked. Revealing is what usually hastens the self-fulfillment of predictions we ought not to know. Most often, the actions of those who try to change a foretold fortune are what bring about the fearful prophecy. The very mentioning of it chilled Trevor’s soul to the core and Kyra had never seen her father filled with dread. Trevor feared nothing, not even death.

But every divination attempt tells only of good fortune for our people, Kyra said. Our hunting parties have never come back empty handed and our pathfinders have always led us to fertile soil and clean water, even in the petrified wasteland. Kyra did not want to admit it, but she had felt this coming for quite some time. At first, even Sera seemed a little relieved when the bones all rolled in their tribe’s favor. Tea leaves told of wyrd luck and divine magic within each elder’s cup, yet every strangled breeze shrieked in mourning warning through turning leaves. Patterns of white-capped waves upon the Nameless Lake said things did not bode well, and Sera scried the sky to see every cloud casting shadows of ill omens on all who dwelt below.

Cro la’wen al arom’por nom’swi. Trevor reverted back to their native tongue, telling her how even the elders were beginning to question if all but the sea and sky told false. Instinct and inclination gnawed at his stomach like a gut feeling, for everyone’s intuition sensed dark storms brewing. Kyra simply did not care, because these thing were not fair! Why did bad things always have to take her fun away?

Because it is your duty as a chief, blah-blah, Kyra replied, pushing out her lower lip. And it’s my duty to stay here and waste away to nothing until I’m an old crone who has never done anything, ever. Go ahead and do your important fire-ritual thing. See if I care! Kyra refused to meet his eyes, knowing his concern would make her feel guilty.

E’wor zan’sara. Chu’wen brug’brig bap’ta de… Me’voyad sari’de qi’maly. Trevor lifted her chin with a strong finger, surprisingly gentle for its size. He reassured her, now, now. Don’t be upset, dear heart. You know how much your mother and I love you and we would do anything to make you smile, but if anything should happen to you… Know that I would rather see you sad than unsafe and I could really use your support right now. I am nervous enough as it is.

Trevor had been worried since the last turn of the leaf, when Kyra’s mother sensed something she could only describe as a conception. Sera said it felt as if the dimensions between worldly realms were expanding and contracting like the birth pains of labor. Each expanse raised to form a stretch mark within the wrinkled spaces separating planes of existence; while every contraction brought about the inexplicable sickness which preyed on weak minds like wolves on the injured. Had the veils of death been breached? If these the ripples were formed by birth pains, what horrors awaited when water broke? The living kept all fallen from reaching beyond a veil of flesh to taint human minds, but for how long? M’hana were born guardians of the veils, placed on earth to ward off damnable things never meant to be. Tribal numbers were dwindling and those who crossed became the cursed and creeping terrors which lie in wait beyond the grave and between lifetimes. Just as the realms of the dead were no place for the living, otherworldly things did not belong on the physical Earth. Veils of space and time separated such places for a reason and the M’hana feared having their spirits trapped within the interbetween. Lost souls being crushed between veils did not worry Sera as much as the unspoken prophecies no hand dared pen for fear of bringing them to fruition. Every prophetess woke screaming with nightmares of the veils coming down completely like a final curtain falling.

Entities with no need to eat would still consume weaker spirits, surely as beasts devoured creatures to avoid being knocked down the food chain by overpopulated numbers. All dimensions would return to one as everything crossed over indefinitely. The deceased would coexist with the living until all spirit energy dispersed into a final bout of displacement. Eternity would meet its end in no time and nowhere would exist forever. Plants and animals would survive without dying, giving individuals no reason or incentive to thrive. Undying death would prevail in perpetuity and mortality would be but a happy memory. The static dead and aged living would entropy together until neither subsided in the end, yet the impenetrable alternative seemed an unpleasant remedy. Permanent solidification of the veils would render them impregnable, with no chance of crossing over for death or rebirth…

You, nervous? Kyra snorted and broke the pause of silence, showing off her bilingual flare. That would never happen. All the other kids tell me how confident you look when you raise your fires high and shoot the flaming arrow into the dark rift. You do this every turn of the leaf. How could you be scared? Kyra looked to the tent door as if the answer to her question were out there somewhere. Her father’s eyes were too convincing and she refused to meet his stare, knowing he had already talked her out of everything. His finger left her chin and his gaze slid to the floor, causing her to finally look up at him as he spoke white once more.

I am afraid every year and I do not even know why. Trevor’s eyebrows knitted as he searched the ground for reasons which eluded him. Last year I lost grip of my concentration and almost burned my feet when I walked over the hot coals. This year I am expected to fire dance and summon a ring of flame to cast into the heavens. Even with your mother’s help, I do not know if I am capable… Please don’t tell anyone, especially your mother. It’s embarrassing. Promise?

Om. Kyra nodded, knowing he had just tricked her into vowing two oaths. Now he would know if she broke either of those promises, but Kyra did not mind any more. She stood tall as she placed both arms around his waist. Everyone expected too much from him and she did not want to be like everyone else. She hugged him tight to keep him close for just a while longer. She looked up at him after burying her face and said. I love you father. I’ll be fine, okay? I am almost grown up anyways.

I know, and that scares me even more. Trevor kissed the top of her head as he lay her down before exiting. He stepped through the lodge flap and turned to say, Good night, dear heart. I will always love you.

Wyrd, Kyra whispered good-luck into the dark. If her father had not heard her with his ears, his spirit had felt her blessing. A few minutes passed while Kyra lay in ambivalent silence. Something did not feel right but she could not find the area of dissonance. Her racing mind teemed with thoughts which fueled insomnia. She could not clear her head of the words her father had spoken. Would she truly be destined for greatness? Prophecies told of one who would lead all of their people but she did not feel like a leader. Leaders did not hide in canvas lodges of painted cow hides while their people celebrated without them. A real leader would be capable of great things right now! Kyra knelt on the ground and envisioned herself as a forest, opening every poor in the cool of the night to take in moonlight the way leaves absorb dew. Damp dirt met her fingertips as she began to draw up power. It saturated her palms before moving up her arms to flood through her entire body. Invisible energy covered her and sunk deep as the planetary pulse of Earth throbbed through her soul to beat in tune with her heart. Winds picked up as her awareness peaked. Rain drops pattered upon the roof of her tent like Summerland tears as Kyra struggled to harness overpowering streams of energy. She ebbed