The Trinity Prophecy

By Barbara Bretana

Keil was born the son of a Wizard, one of the Seven Great Wizards of the College of Magick. When it became clear that he was the child foretold of in the prophecy of the Three, his father sent him away to keep him safe. Before the child was delivered to sanctuary, he was lost in a small barony to be raised among the stables. Magic went awry around Keil, where everyone else had some touch of ability to make spells, he could not. Banished to the mountains to care for the horse herds, he arrives back at the manor to find everyone dead and new occupants that are looking for the missing son of the White Wizard and the Prophecy of the Trinity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Barbara Bretana
• Release date: Nov 5, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311146625

Barbara Bretana

I've been writing and reading since the age of three. Anyone who knows me knows I'm nuts about horses, reading, dogs and painting. Went to school in Vermont, Castleton State and Pratt/Phoenix School of Design and found out college wasn't for me. Worked with Developmentally Disabled and loved it. Went back to school for my CNA license and decided to try writing for a career as I keep breaking things like my rotator cuff, discs and whatnot. Getting bucked off your horse, well, I don't bounce like I used to. I'm the one in the brown coat.

Book preview

Chapter 1

I leaned on my pitchfork, the rough edge of the ash handle against the cheek of the left side of my face. I was careful not to let its splintery surface poke me on my more sensitive skin. My hands so calloused by now that they almost felt like the horny hooves of the animals I was shoveling out. I no longer smelled the odor of fresh manure. My masters did; they had banned me from the servant’s hall, then the kennels, the laundry and finally, the midden cellar. I now lived in a small hut close to the garbage dump. Built of rock into the side of a hill, the roof was slabs of slate covered with soil and tough pads of grass. Called a bothy, it had once been used to house sheep.

My bed was a rough square of 4x4 piled high with straw. I had a clay stove, a kettle, wooden trencher, cup and a spoon. A coal lantern and a brace of cheap tallow candles were my only source of light.

A hand came out of nowhere and snatched the fork away so that I lost my balance and fell straight into the pile of fresh shit I’d just forked up.

I rolled over, spitting mad, came up and went for the two other grooms who were laughing at me.

Runyon and Issha stepped back, threw a spell at me and I tripped as it flew over my head to start a small fire in the bale of hay I had set out because I’d found it moldy.

Cursing, I let them go and ran to pull it away before it could set the stables on fire.

Nervous horses kicked inside the barn and I went to soothe them, swatting idly at the flies that followed me.

Forty horses lived inside with another forty out at grass. I wasn’t allowed to feed or curry them. My sole use for his lordship’s stables was to pick out as many of the box stalls as I could. It was the only life I could remember from the time I had been old enough to open my eyes.

I could remember riding in front of a knight on a giant palfrey tucked into his cloak against his stomach and riding into this very courtyard. That was years ago.

I wished I could tap into the magick and soothe the horses of their fear, or to helping me do my chores or preventing the other grooms from tormenting me.

I lived in a place where everyone had some portion of magic talent and could perform spells—make lights come on, fill pitchers of water, start wood in fireplaces, mend a seam in torn clothes, churn butter, make water hot in a tub. A thousand ways to make life a little easier. For everyone but me.

I had no magical ability; I had tried, and nothing ever happened. I was the butt of jokes and the other servants used me for a practice dummy to test out new spells.

One consolation I had was that the older I grew, the more their spells seemed to side slip around me. The actual spells didn’t touch me but the havoc they worked on other things did.

Romney, a stable hand who sometimes drove the coach horses had once worked a spell to make the manure cart push itself to the pile. Instead, the wheels had come off, rolled towards the firewood stacks, climbed it and started an avalanche of logs that hit me, broke my arm and knocked me unconscious for two days.

That was the only time I had ever seen the inside of the house, the Solar and Still Room where a stern old Demoiselle had treated me with not magic but old-fashioned healing.

I still had the scars on arm and head from that encounter, still felt an occasional headache and weakness in my left arm.

The horses settled as I murmured softly to them. I might not have magick, but I could talk to horses, get them to be comfortable in my presence, to come to me from out in the field, to settle under my calming touch. I could get on the rankest outlaw and have it gone as meek as the quietest lady’s mount.

Boy, what the hell happened? I heard Lannis shout from the aisle and I closed the stall door on the stallion and made myself as small as I could; knowing a slap was coming.

By now, everyone in the demesnes knew that physical punishment was the only safe way to torment me; their magicks tended to deflect around me. His hand rocked my face back but not far because he had my hair in his other.

Tears of pain sprang out of my eyes and I made an involuntary cry. His face was harsh under his eared cap of green felt. His brows were bushy, his eyes a deep brown like his curly hair and neatly trimmed beard. He wore a clean set of livery in brown serge with black braid and his boots were shined and spotless.

I kept the aisles swept and clean; the manure pile was out of sight and smell of the house just so his boots would stay clean. I’d learned that lesson quickly.

There was a fire, Nocomis? You weren’t smoking? He looked horrified. I denied it. Smoking was not a vice I indulged in; besides, I had no spare coin to buy tobacco and not allowed enough time to go looking in the forest for wild plants.

My only day off was spent in exhausted slumber in my bothy. I didn’t even go for foodstuffs at the dining hall.

Lannis threw me against a stall door and I slid to the floor, my hand on my stinging cheek.

If you weren’t such a…get up. Finish your chores in the stud pasture. Were Romney and Issha here?

At my nod, his lips thinned, and he muttered under his breath. He came to a decision.

You know the bothy up on the hillside of Dormeggan?

Aye.

Take Silverlegs up there and let him breed the mares. Stay, help them foal, those that are due. Someone will send a message bird when it is time to return.

The stalls? I rubbed my cheek and saw his eyes riveted to my filthy hand with its broken nails, dirt encrusted under their tips.

Paugh, he sniffed. You stink, boy.

He picked me up by my collar, dragged me down the aisle and threw me into the horse trough I had spent an hour scrubbing clean a day ago.

The water had warmed in the sunshine, but it still was cold enough to bring a gasp of shock to me.

He pushed me under with one hand and scrubbed me with harness soap and brush with the other.

By the gods, he muttered as the grime of years floated on the scummy water. You’re quite…pretty.

I bit him. His reaction was extreme. He made a fist and hit me on the chin. Stars filled my vision, my head slammed back on the edge of the wooden bucket and I slid under the water’s surface.

***

I woke in my bothy, flat on the straw pallet, naked under a thin blanket. I sobbed, was afraid to look, afraid to feel. I moved slowly, took stock of my body.

Other than a sore chin and a headache, nothing else was sore. I reached around to my bunghole and felt. He hadn’t used me, which was my greatest fear. I had been raped several times before I had learned to cover myself in filth. It had happened in the first year I had started reaching my growth spurt and my hair had turned curly in mahogany lengths that touched my shoulders.

Usually, it was matted with burrs and caked into dreadlocks, but I could feel bareness to my neck now. I reached up and felt the shortness of curls on my neck. My hair had been shorn close to my scalp.

I sat up and that was a mistake. Vomit spewed from my stomach through my mouth and onto the blanket. I groaned. Wavy lines distorted my vision, sounds hurt. I lay down again, curled myself into a ball and went back to sleep.

***

A few hours later, I woke and sat up slowly. This time, my stomach stayed where it was, and I was able to get up. I wrapped the blanket around me like a cape. The clothes I had on when Lannis had thrown me in the trough had been the only ones I had owned.

I went down to the spring that came out of the ledge my bothy was built into and brought in a kettle of water, set it on the clay fire pot and boiled water for tea.

The herb woman who worked the Knot Gardens always kept a stash for me of hyssop, rose hips, chamomile and jasmine.

I sat on a stump for a chair and sipped the hot tea.

I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t leave for the mountains in a blanket, didn’t know if I was supposed to wait for Lannis; couldn’t go without the stud horse. I was afraid to go back to the stables in my present condition.

I heard a scratching at the frame outside the leather hide hung as a door, it flipped aside as Lannis, and the Healer Yanna entered. Lannis threw a bundle down on the straw and stepped back as he pulled off my blanket. My hands flew to cover my privates and I blushed a deep red. I could feel it to my hairline.

Yes, she hissed. I see. Boy, do you know you have white skin, blue eyes and hair the color of oxblood?

Her fingers touched the bruises on my chin. And black and blue.

Dress yourself before Dame Yanna, he ordered. Hurriedly, I pulled on the clean leggings, long sleeved tunic and cloak clasped with a silken frog at the throat. A deep hood hung down my back. Hose of woolen and sturdy boots went on next, last a belt around my slender waist. The clothing was middle class, not piss poor like my previous rags.

Do you know your parents? she asked me, and I looked to him. He had no answer for me.

No.

Who named you?

Someone here. I was found at the Nocoma River inside a Gate, besides a dead horse.

How old are you?

I do not know. They said I was perhaps two seasons.

He has been here thirteen years, Lannis added.

Has it been so long? I wondered.

He looks like he comes from Langduac. You say he has no magick?

Lannis gestured, conjured a will-o-the wisp and it frittered around the room as if it had gone mad, then sputtered and went out. He is left-handed, too.

Hmmn, she mused. I agree with you, Lannis. Send the boy away. Up on the mountain where Magick is sparse. She turned to me. So, you are the cause of magick going awry.

Me? What did I do? I protested.

I will bring the stallion myself. You are to take him at moonrise. Do not fear; nothing will attack you at night with a mature stud at your side. I will send supplies in a month. Till then, use what is stocked there.

He named the mares due to foal and I remembered them; he made me repeat them.

His memory is good? she asked.

Yes. He never forgets what I tell him. I have written things down and checked them against his memory and mine. He is never wrong.

How is your head? she questioned me.

Hurts. I would have offered them tea, but I had only the one cup.

She sniffed it. Chamomile and hyssop? Good for stomach ailments and pain. Willow bark is good for headaches, too. Alder. Lannis let us leave him to rest.

At moon rise, boy. Be gone before daybreak.

Yes, master.

The door flipped shut and I was left to ponder this strange occurrence.

Chapter 4

We caravanned down the gentle switchback and I idly noted that Silverlegs didn’t seem to be lame at all; he strutted and galloped off to the side behind the mares as if nothing was wrong with him. The foals occasionally joined him; they were curious, always wandering off to poke their little muzzles into things that could turn out to be minor disasters. Yanni was the lead mare and she obligingly carried my bundle of blankets, pots and tea things. I had gathered a respectable amount of leaves and dried them for steeping. I had blueberry, strawberry, blackberry, hyssop, wild mint, chamomile, tansy and yarrow. Boneset, elderberry, arnica chokecherries and most precious of all, ginseng.

I did take them through the woodlands and turned them loose in the winter pastures telling them to hide until I came to check on them.

Silverlegs, I bridled and led away from his mares. He whinnied once but came with me, more than happy to follow. I suspect he was ready to return to his stall and the pampered life he had lived.

He pushed me eagerly with his nose; I wanted to come onto the manor’s property with some caution.

We saw that the gates were still hanging off the hinges; smoke coming from the chimneys and armed soldiers were resting at the cornices of the manor’s crenelated roof, as well as on the tower. The bodies were gone from the iron spikes and I no longer smelled that sickly-sweet stench of ripe rotten flesh. I did see a pile of charred ash and log bits where a funeral pyre must have been.

I was spotted not by the lax guards of the house but by a patrol that rode up from the road behind me. Silverlegs snorted and bolted around, pulling the reins from my hands. I whirled and the bolt of magical energy aimed for me sailed over my head to bounce off a tree and knock down its load of green apples.

I ran for the woods, yelling to the stud to follow me. He wanted to fight but he obeyed, snatching an apple out of the air as he passed by the tree.

Shouts of anger spurred me on. A man’s voice yelled for me to stop. I ran faster, slung my pack back over my shoulders. I wasn’t about to leave that behind. Without it, I had no reserves to survive.

Hooves thundered behind me, catching up. I was close enough to hear one of them conjure a spell to open a hole in front of me so I would fall into a pit.

Instead, a tree behind me sank halfway up its trunk as the ground under its root ball sank. Curses ripped the air and their spell maker changed tactics. I risked a glance backwards.

Dodging tree trunks, I ran for cover, but the master had treated his woods as parkland, kept the scrubby bushes to a minimum and the riders found it no hardship to gallop through the trees. They ran me down only to confront an enraged stallion and their reaction was to raise a sword to kill him.

I screamed. DON’T! That’s Silverlegs!

The soldier stilled his stroke and the stallion knocked him off his mount. I reached the flying reins and pulled him off the man before he was trampled.

It took me minutes to soothe and calm the trembling stud. He wanted to kill, was a quivering ¾ ton of sweat-drenched flesh turned almost black.

Easy, son, easy, I soothed and when he was calm, turned my attention to this group.

They were tall men, dressed in leather hauberks with brass and iron chain mail, gauntlets edged in copper. Some wore visors and others wore helmets. Their colors were green and black; their pennants sported a circle of black sky with a star surrounded by eight rays of light. Some carried swords; others had bows of a size usable on horseback. All crackled with a static energy that made my curls lift around my head like a halo in paintings of saints I had seen in my one visit to the kirk.

The man wearing the fur-trimmed cloak barked an order to two of his men and they dropped from the saddle to take the stud horse from me. Another grabbed me by my neck and slapped me so hard that my head snapped back.

Sergeant, enough, the lead man snarled. Who are you, boy and what are you doing with the region’s most famous stallion?

Who are you? I returned and received another blow for my impertinence.

I am Magister Avignon, Captain to the Duke of the Southern Marches and the Shivering Sands. Second of the First Circle, Magus to his Lord, King Wulfram. He gestured and magical bonds of force floated all around me, slid off my arms and legs and slithered into worms on the ground.

His eyebrows of deepest black met over his nose and he frowned at me. I saw him nod and the man who held me covered my mouth and nose with his hand, cutting off my breath. I struggled, bit at him, caught flesh between my teeth and tasted blood. He cursed, lifted me off the ground and swung me headfirst into the dirt.

My skull exploded with white noise and sparks. I dropped into a well of dark souls that tormented me.

The smell of cat piss woke me, and I opened my eyes to stare at a swathe of herbs I’d never seen before but would never forget its stink for it was bad enough to bring the dead to life. I turned my face to the side and swallowed bile. My head ached; my entire body felt as if I’d spent a week inside a barrel while millers beat on it with battlets.

I moaned, held my head in my hands and told them to shut out the lights.

Instead, my head was grabbed, twisted and a wizard’s speculum was lanced into my irises. I felt it spear me to the back of my brain and erupted.

The man’s quick reflexes saved him from a shower of vomit, and he muttered a spell to settle my stomach. Instead, a skull perched on the sideboard went flying off to knock over several flasks and the cloying odor of cloves and allspice filled the master’s Still Room.

Woman, this man ordered over his shoulder. Bring me the peppermint oil and a glass of wine.

I heard the rustle of a woman’s skirt and her hand appeared from behind him with a goblet of pewter and a glass green vial. He poured some few drops into the cup and held it to my lips.

Drink.

I turned my head away. He forced it back, mashed the cup’s lip to my teeth and poured until I had no choice but to drink or drown.

The wine hit my stomach with warmth I had never experienced before and made my head swim, my skin sweat, and my heart slow to a deep beat. The sharp bite of the oil coated my throat and down my pipe to my belly and the topsy-turvy feeling of its eruption ceased.

Have you hit your head before? he asked, and I opened one eye cautiously. The pain in my skull had throttled back enough so that I could at least see and hear without the wrenching nausea.

Yes, I was short, clenched my teeth. They told me I was insensible for days.

Yet again, he added. You have been lying here for three days without moving, speaking or eating. I am the Magister Avignon; I serve His Grace, the Duke of Erythynn and King Wulfram.

Never heard of them.

Who are you? And don’t be impertinent, boy.

I’m nobody. Just the shit shoveler.

Why were you not in the stables, then?

Lannis sent me to Dormeggan with Silverlegs to breed the mares.

He trusted a muck hand with the most famous stallion in this land?

I’m the only one he tolerates.

Yes, he said dryly. He’s been tearing the barn apart. We finally turned him loose in the north pasture. He studied me; saw past the dirt I’d accumulated on the mountain, but I was nowhere near as filthy as I’d been mucking out down here.

He lifted my hair, which had grown past my shoulders and twisted the curly locks.

You don’t look like the people here. Where are you from?

I didn’t have to answer him, someone came into the room and everyone stood, faced the newcomer and bowed. Except me. I saw a tall man with a black beard shaped to a point, hair that was wavy and, on his shoulders, was black as night as were his eyes. He had deep frown lines on either side of his tight mouth, which was a wormy purple color. He held a pair of leather gauntlets in his grip and wore two enormous rings on both hands. All of those were stones that glittered green and onyx.

Your Grace, the Magister said and bowed low. The Duke swung his hand towards the lamp and tried to light them while the magister smiled and stepped back. Three little flames went dancing about the Solar and lit the velvet bell pull afire, torched the tapestry that hung on the south wall, and burned a maidservant’s toes.

What the hell? he muttered and before he could throw another, stronger spell, the man Avignon held his hands.

You cannot cite a spell, and have it work around the boy, Your Grace. He spoke to the maid and she lit the lamps with a long match taken from the fireplace. Mellow light warmed the room.

Who are you, boy and from whence do you come? How come you to have the stallion?

Did you murder the master and his people?

He hit me with the leather gloves. It stung, brought tears to my eyes and reddened my cheek.

He is…impertinent, your Grace. Will not answer my questions.

Perhaps torture will loosen his tongue.

Yes. I’m sure it would. But he is the only one who can handle Silverlegs which I myself have seen. The stallion obeys him like a meek lamb.

Answer our questions, boy or I will order the horse killed.

I struggled to my feet; my head felt like it would fall off and go rolling across the room like an errant witch ball.

You can’t do that! My hands flew to my mouth and I swallowed the bile that I felt coming up. Don’t hurt him, I begged. He is the finest horse to be born in a hundred years. To kill him or hurt him would be a crime!

He laughed derisively. Idiot! I have slain your master, his family, his entire army and sold your village into slavery. I have taken all your animals, your milch cows, your swine and especially your royal racehorses. What is one more petty crime of horse slaughter?

I looked at the wizard. My name is Nocomis, called such because I was found at the base of the Nocoma River beside a dead horse thirteen seasons ago. That is all I know.

Their faces blanched. The duke stepped forward, pulled off my shirt with one swift jerk, and tilted my head to the right.

Are you left-handed? he snapped as he lifted my arm and inspected that armpit.

Is it there, your Grace?

Candle wax dripped on me and a faint burning spread from my neck to my side. A faint greenish blue glow lit up their faces.

Who would have thought we would find the Prophecy in a muck heap? Send a message bird to the King and tell him we have his prize. If we can’t use Magicks on him, Avignon, how will we restrain him?

Shackles, your Grace. This place has a fine dungeon. I’m sure it would be an improvement over where he was living.

They hauled me off to the cellars and locked me not only in the 4x6 hole but put iron shackles on my ankles that were bolted to an iron ring in the wall that would have stopped Silverlegs.

I didn’t even have straw under me, no blanket, just an old bucket, a three-legged stool and the torn remnants of my tunic.

I cried myself to sleep but gently for my head still hurt enough to make me miserable. They didn’t bother to feed me nor leave me drink. I hoped they were taking better care of the stallion than they were of me.

Chapter 2

Lannis himself came at the rise of the moon. I was sitting up waiting on him with my new cape tucked about me. The night still had a decided nip