Become: To Ride the Storm: Become, #2

By Meredith Mansfield

As a son of the Goddess, Gaian might become a god himself—if he can remember to try.

In the conclusion of the Become series, Gaian has no memory of who he is, where he lived, or who he loves. He can barely remember his own name. The only thing he knows, the only thing he holds onto is the belief that his purpose is to protect others. That, and the certainty that leaving his solitary existence in the forest would cause immeasurable harm to others.

Everyone else believes Gaian is dead. But they know what he has forgotten: that an ancient prophecy says that a son of the Goddess could become a god—the Sky God—with the right help.

At the prompting of a new prophecy, Margan, the son born after Gaian's "death", comes over the mountains to find his father's grave. There he meets Rose, the girl with a gift for dreams who was once rescued by a strange man in the forest.

Together, they might have the abilities needed to help Gaian complete his destiny. If they fail, it could end in catastrophe.

Inspired by the legend of Hercules.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Meredith Mansfield
• Release date: Jan 2, 2019
• ISBN: 9781540176677

Book preview

Map

Table of Contents

Map

I: Eighteen Years

II: Prophetic Dream

III: The Ragged Man

IV: Purpose

V: Worst Fears

VI: No Escape

VII: Nightmares

VIII: A Human Voice

IX: Over the Mountains

X: Strength

XI: Thanks

XII: Strategic Withdrawal

XIII: News

XIV: Warning

XV: Theft

XVI: Attack

XVII: Tracking

XVIII: Getting Out of the Forest

XIX: Help

XX: Discovered

XXI: Betrayal

XXII: Escape

XXIII: No Longer Secret

XXIV: Reflections

XXV: Too Sensitive

XXVI: Asking New Questions

XXVII: Back into the Forest

XXVIII: Recognition

XXIX: Memories

XXX: Through the Thicket

XXXI: Awakening

XXXII: Disappeared

XXXIII: Tales of the Past

XXXIV: Nightmare

XXXV: Reconnaissance

XXXVI: The Dangers of Remembering

XXXVII: Hunting

XXXVIII: Remembering Cordan

XXXIX: Practice

XL: Desperate Measures

XLI: Versenna

XLII: Outrage

XLIII: Home

XLIV: More Dreams

XLV: To Protect

XLVI: Mariel

XLVII: Aftermath

XLVIII: Informant

XLIX: Search

L: Brothers

LI: Father

LII: The Last Defense

LIII: Becoming

LIV: Return

LV: Unfinished Business

LVI: Temples United

Author’s Note

Bonus Material

About the Author

I: Eighteen Years

Mariel stared out the arched window of her third-floor room in the Palace, idly scratching Luna’s ears while the cat purred. With the added elevation granted by the central hill on which the Palace stood, Mariel could easily look beyond the bustling city below and its walls to the greening plains beyond. And farther away to the mountains called the Spine of the World. She’d been here, in Khatar, almost half her life, now, and still she felt that her home was on the other side of those mountains, in Versenna. Her lips twitched up. According to the letters she’d received over the years, they called her the Lost Princess in Versenna, now, and wove all sorts of tragic-romantic tales about her. None of them touching the real truth, of course. Still, it was easier to think about the silly stories than about what else was in those letters.

At the clatter of hooves, she looked down to see Margan riding in on his distinctive palomino warhorse. Her breath caught. Make the horse grey instead of gold and that could be Gaian riding in. Margan’s blond hair might be a shade paler than his father’s and his shoulders not quite as broad—though another year or two would likely change that. Eighteen years. Well, seventeen and a half. Hard to believe it had been that long, but Margan would be eighteen at the coming spring equinox, so it had to be so. And how had her little boy grown up so quickly? Hard to think of him as a grown man, nearly. And yet, Margan reminded her so much of his father, now. More every day. Of course, she’d never known Gaian as a child or a youth, only as a young man, so maybe that made sense.

Mariel stood and watched the sun set over those mountains, thinking of her home. Though she lived in the Palace by the King’s generosity, she scarcely thought of herself as a princess, anymore. She certainly wasn’t a princess of Khatar, at any rate, and never had been. She’d made a life here. A good life, for herself and her son. Found useful, honorable, fulfilling work for herself as a Healer. Something she’d always wanted. But it seemed Khatar would never truly feel like home. She missed the forests, the smell of the nearby ocean. She huffed and rubbed at the itchy skin on the back of her hand. She even missed the almost daily rain. It was so much drier on this side of the mountains. Most of all, she missed that estate on the edge of the forest that had so briefly been her home, her haven, her paradise. The place that would still, after all these years, be full of memories of Gaian, as Khatar never would be.

She turned at a soft knock on the door, not entirely surprised. Enter.

As she’d expected, Margan came through the doorway. Judging by the short golden hairs on his dark trousers, he’d taken the time to groom and care for his horse, but not time to take a comb to his own wind-blown hair. Typical. And, again, very like his father.

Mother, uh . . . .

Mariel seated herself in the one of the chairs that flanked the window and gestured for her son to take the other. Margan was usually more articulate. If he was stumbling over his words already, it was because he knew she wouldn’t like what he was about to say. She drew in a breath and let it out in a soft sigh. Yes, with his birthday approaching it was about time for him to bring up this subject again.

Margan sat and looked down at the elderly cat he carried, scratching her ears.

Mrow was quite an old cat now. Too old to chase after an active young man like Margan. Mariel expected a new cat to turn up—the way the Goddess’s cats always did—any day now to take over and allow Mrow to retire to nap on the foot of Margan’s bed. Just as Greykin had replaced her first cat, Kitty, before Margan was born and then Luna had replaced Greykin just three years ago. Though following Mariel around hadn’t been anywhere near as strenuous a job as following Margan. She really ought to make a sling—or find the one she’d used for Greykin—to make it easier for Margan to carry his cat. That, clearly, wasn’t what he’d come to talk to her about, though.

Mariel folded her hands in her lap and waited for Margan to say what was on his mind. Just because she could guess didn’t mean she had to make this any easier for him. Especially since she knew she’d have to refuse his request—again.

Finally, Margan looked up. Mother, I’m going to be eighteen soon and I really think I’m old enough now to . . . to go over the mountains to visit Versenna, where I was born. You’ve told me about it all my life. And . . . . He paused to draw in a breath and then finished in a rush, And I really want to visit the place where Father died.

Mariel clenched her hands to keep them from trembling. She understood his need to find some connection with the father he’d never had a chance to know. Though she didn’t think Gaian’s grave was the best place to do that. Far better to visit the places that held memories of the living man. But . . . . She shook her head. Not yet.

I’m old enough. Older than Father was when he first went to war, according to Uncle Alander. I’ve had more than enough training to be able to defend myself from anything I’m likely to meet. I’m stronger than any of my friends—nearly as strong as Father was, Hyrtin says. Why not?

Mariel drew in a breath to steady herself. Indeed, Margan had grown into his full considerable strength, and was trained and ready to defend himself—from the ordinary threats travelers might face. And it wasn’t as if he’d be alone. She—and he—had friends, those who would be loyal to Gaian’s memory as well as those who would be loyal to her. Including her father, who was, after all, the ruling Prince of Versenna. But, they also had a sly and dangerous enemy that Margan knew nothing about.

And she couldn’t tell him. Not yet. Margan knew nothing of the prophecy. Couldn’t know—couldn’t be told—that his father might not be really dead, but in some transitional state, waiting for the right help to complete the transformation from mortal to god. That the prophecy suggested that it was Margan who would have to provide that help. If he knew that, there was no power in Khatar that could stop him from going straight as an arrow’s flight to his father’s grave. But, Mariel had to think that that was exactly what Cordan would expect. Exactly what he would be prepared to prevent, by any means necessary. And that could mean disaster—for Margan, for Gaian, maybe for the world.

She reached across to lay a hand on his arm. There are other dangers that physical strength cannot counter. And you are not yet ready to face those.

What dangers? Margan demanded.

Mariel bit her lip and refused to answer. There was no answer she could safely give. No truthful one, anyway. And she refused to lie to her son.

How am I supposed to prepare for these imagined dangers if you won’t even tell me what they are?

Mariel closed her eyes, trying to formulate an answer. Before she could come up with anything, she heard Margan stride across the room and leave, shutting the door behind him with more force than strictly necessary. She couldn’t blame him; it had to feel horribly unfair to him. It was unfair—to both of them.

Not long ago, Mariel had started to hope that maybe it was time to go home, too. That, perhaps, now it would be safe. Started to think that maybe it was even time. Surely they couldn’t afford to wait much longer, if Gaian was to Become a god.

She picked up the packet of letters from Leria, Gaian’s loyal half-sister who was currently in the Temple at Versenna. The letters were weeks out of date, of course. They’d been sent roundabout across the southern pass and then back north to the Temple here in Khatar rather than across the northern pass that connected Khatar and Versenna directly. Well, that part hadn’t been for secrecy. The northern pass was still blocked with snow this early in the year, though it was due to clear soon. Using the Temple couriers and sending messages from one Temple to the other, that was for secrecy. Though in warmer seasons, Gaian’s half-brother Alander often rode across the northern pass as a hired guard, and so carried the correspondence more directly—and more quickly.

This packet had contained letters from her father as well as from Leria, both full of the continuing activities of the agents of the New Temple, still desperate to discover where Mariel had gone—and taken Gaian’s son. To control both of Gaian’s children as High Priest Cordan undoubtedly already controlled Kaleran, Gaian’s other son. To control the Temple that was a mockery of pretended worship of Gaian into the future. She had no doubt Cordan’s real aim was to make sure that Gaian could never Become a god at all. Because he had to know that the first thing Gaian would do would be to banish Cordan from anything to do with his Temple—and the worldly power that went with it.

She sighed. Not safe yet. Not so long as Cordan had so many resources to pour into trying to capture or—horrifying thought—kill Margan. Remembering Cordan, she had no doubt he would, if he believed it was the only way to keep Gaian from Ascending.

II: Prophetic Dream

For the third night in a row, Rose dreamed of a very odd palace. It was nothing like the palace here in Versenna, which she’d walked by more times than she could count on her way to the Temple school and back. Though, granted, she’d only ever seen it from the outside. This palace in her dream was all open courtyards and carved arches. Totally impractical. There’d be no way at all to keep the rain or the winter chill out. But . . . other things about this dream made her think that the palace might be somewhere on the other side of the mountains. It was supposed to be drier, there. And hotter. So maybe the palace architecture made sense after all.

As on the previous nights, her dream eye was drawn to a young man. The burnished gold of his hair was one of the things that made her think this dream location might be Khatar. At least, the traders that came over the mountain pass from Khatar were the only people she knew who generally had hair that color—well, and a few people whose parents or grandparents had come from Khatar.

This time, the young man rode up to the palace on a horse only a slightly darker shade of gold than his hair, with a creamy mane and tail. Rose had never seen a horse that color, but she had to admit they made a striking pair. Then again, she’d thought the young man was striking whatever he happened to be doing in her dream.

Suddenly words tumbled from her mouth. Fatherless, Weather has grown strong and true, taught and guided by blood, protected by blood and Temple. Now the time arrives to seek his lost father and complete the prophecy.

Her father squeezed her hand. Wake up now, Rose.

Her eyes fluttered open and her brows knit, momentarily disoriented. She felt strange, dizzy, even though she was lying down. And why was Papa holding her hand? Oh, right. Because she’d had the same dream, or one very like it, for two nights running—three, now. Papa was a Dream Guide, as Rose would be too, someday, and he had to touch her as she dreamed in order to share the dream so he could determine if the dream was a true dream—a significant dream.

Papa released her hand and began scribbling something hurriedly on the paper on the little table by her bed.

Papa?

He turned to smile at her, though his smile seemed a little strained. He ruffled her hair and kissed her forehead. Go back to sleep, little flower. I don’t think that dream will repeat, now. And, even if it does, it’s not a bad dream, now is it?

Rose shook her head and restrained herself from clutching at his hand. The dream wasn’t bad at all. But there was certainly something about it that disturbed Papa. Something he wasn’t telling her. What is it, Papa?

His smile turned a little wry—and more genuine. Only that I wasn’t prepared for my little flower to have dreams of young men quite yet. Fathers always think of their daughters as little girls, you see. But you’re sixteen now, and I shouldn’t be that surprised.

That . . . was true. It just wasn’t what was really bothering Papa.

He gave her hand another pat as he stood up from the chair he’d been sitting in. Go back to sleep.

Rose counted to ten after Papa had closed her bedroom door behind him. And then crept as silently as she could out of bed and across the room to press her ear against the door. There was something Papa wasn’t telling her, but she’d bet anything Mama would get it out of him. Not that Mama would tell Rose, either. Which was why she was going to do her best to listen in.

Where do you think you’re going at this time of night? That was Mama’s voice. Was Papa going out? Why? Unless he’d gotten another call as a Dream Guide, of course. But then Mama wouldn’t be asking him, would she?

I have to go to the Temple.

Why? Why right now?

Sella, Rose’s dream was not only a true dream, it was a prophetic one. The words she spoke just before I woke her were prophecy. I wrote them down. Now I need to take them to the Temple so they can be entered in the Book of Prophecies and distributed to the other Temples. Yes, right now, while the dream is fresh in my mind, in case there are any questions about it.

Words? Prophecy? Rose didn’t remember saying anything in her dream.

After a pause, Papa continued, Wait up for me. We need to talk.

I understand about taking the prophecy to the Temple. What else is there to discuss?

Very few Dream Guides ever have a prophetic dream. Those that do . . . tend to be among the most sensitive. Often too sensitive.

"Too sensitive?"

You’ve told me that you’re worried about Rose. How high-strung and nervous she’s gotten over the last year or so. How she’s drawn inward, spending less time with her friends. We both thought it was just her age and she’d grow out of it. But . . . sometimes—not often, thank the Goddess—some of Her descendants are born too sensitive to withstand constant contact with other people. It’s as though they feel others’ emotions as if they were their own. And, for them, the strain is often too much for their sanity. They tend not to live long unless they are either sheltered in the heart of some rural Temple or live in some equally quiet place. Not, certainly, in the busy midst of a port city like Versenna. We need to talk about how best to protect Rose. Is your mother’s brother still the caretaker of that estate of the eldest princess?

Yes . . . Well, I’m sure his sons do most of the work now. But Uncle Darv and Aunt Pallia still live in the same cottage. Why?

If they can find a place for us out there, that might be somewhere we could take Rose until we have time to think what to do for her more permanently. Think about it. We’ll talk more when I get back from the Temple.

Rose crept back to bed and lay awake, not entirely sure she was glad to have overheard that particular conversation. What Papa had said sounded all too much like what she’d been feeling over the last months. But she didn’t much like either of the solutions he’d proposed. Not that there was much she could do about it. Not if Mama decided she agreed with Papa, anyway.

~~~

A few days later, Rose found herself looking with mixed feelings at her new home. There was no doubt she’d felt more relaxed almost as soon as they’d left the city, but this felt . . . extreme.

The cottage obviously hadn’t been lived in for some time. Well, that really shouldn’t be surprising. This cottage had belonged to Rose’s great grandparents, back before the vanished Princess Mariel was even born. It was set right up against the forest eaves on a small scrap of land bordering the estate belonging to the Princess’s mother and, later, to the missing Princess. After his parents’ deaths, Great Uncle Darv had abandoned this place to become caretaker on the estate—in a much newer and nicer cottage that could just be seen from the corner of the garden.

Didn’t look like anyone had even visited this cottage in quite some time. The small kitchen garden was overgrown with weeds, the roof . . . well, it probably did keep out the rain or the inside would be an even bigger mess than it was . . . but seen from the outside, it definitely sagged where leaves from an overhanging maple tree, last outrider of the forest, had collected over the years. There was even a handful of weeds growing up through the leaf litter up there. Everything inside was buried in a layer of dust so deep it was surprising that no seeds had taken root, there, too. And the faint rustling sounds suggested that generations of mice had built their homes in the pantry.

Even supposing they could ever make this cottage livable, let alone comfortable, Rose had no idea how she was ever supposed to begin her training as a Dream Guide—training that Papa had already delayed twice—from all the way out here. Her older brother, Heron, along today to help get them moved in, would be going back to the city to continue his training. But not Rose.

That wasn’t even the worst of it. The cottage could be repaired and cleaned up. The worst was that Papa wouldn’t be staying here with them. Not all the time. There just wasn’t enough call for a Dream Guide way out here. So Papa would be staying most of the time with Heron back in Versenna-the-City. Papa had promised to come out to be with them for a few days at a time. Other than that, Rose and Mama would be alone out here. Well, not completely alone. Great Uncle Darv and all his family were almost within shouting distance. But most of the time, Rose would be alone in this cottage with Mama. Rose dreaded that.

She stroked her small grey cat. Well, at least she’d have Puss, too. Maybe Puss could even help with the mice.

Mama blew out a breath. "All right. Roll up your sleeves, Rose, Heron. You, too, Jay. We have a lot of work to do before anyone is sleeping in this house."

~~~

Even after days spent washing down every handspan of the floor and walls, there was still more to do before the whole cottage would be clean. At least two of the bedrooms and the kitchen were now clean enough to satisfy Mama. Rose breathed a sigh of relief to be told to go out and begin weeding the small garden instead of more scrubbing. Being outside in the late winter sun was good. Puss obviously thought so too, where she lay sprawled in a sunny spot on the wall. Best of all was not being directly under Mama’s critical eye for an afternoon.

The task didn’t take much thought, since everything in this garden patch, with the possible exception of a thorny tangle of berry vines over by the wall, was a weed. Just the monotonous, repetitive movement of the hoe, which allowed Rose to daydream as she pleased. Shortly before leaving the city, Rose’s imagination had been captured by the romantic story of the broken-hearted, bereaved Princess Mariel who had simply disappeared only a year or two before Rose was born.

Tales had the Lost Princess taking her infant son and running off to her dead husband’s family in Juturna, or some said to Khatar, or farther away to Farea, or even over the Monzan Mountains into the wild lands far to the north. Rumor would have it that even Prince Merton didn’t know where his eldest daughter had gone. Rose doubted that. Surely a man as wealthy and powerful as a ruling prince would have men out searching for her—if he didn’t already know where she was. And no tale spoke of any such search—at least by Prince Merton.

The princess was reputed to have had palest blonde hair. And her husband was supposed to have been blond as well in most of the versions Rose had heard. She briefly wondered if their son—he must be about eighteen, now—would have hair the color of the young man she so often saw in her own dreams.

III: The Ragged Man

Gaian stood, hidden, in the shelter of the trees and watched the activity around the cottage. The ragged remnants of his clothes were mostly brown and green now, whatever color they’d started as. The woman and her young daughter wouldn't see him in the shadows cast by the huge maple. They'd never know he was there at all.

The cottage had stood empty for as long as he could remember, derelict, nearly reclaimed by the forest. How long was that? It didn’t feel like it could be very many years, but that young tree beside the front walk hadn’t been there the last time he’d come this way, had it? No, not even a sapling. Though . . . his memory for some things, like the passage of time, wasn’t very reliable.

The two women moved about the house and its garden, trying to make it habitable. No small task after so long. They were not used to such a life. That much was obvious. The woman's clothes, more fashionable than practical, proclaimed her city-bred and used to better. This tiny, isolated cottage was certainly a come-down for her. What hardship had brought them out here? A merchant's wife or widow fallen on hard times, perhaps.

She was not careful enough of her daughter so close to the forest. The woman was intent on her work, trying to open windows long since warped shut to air out the house. From the buckets of filthy water she carried outside and replenished from the spring inside the forest's edge, she must be trying to scrub the inside clean of years of grime and mold. The grey-striped cat did a better job of looking after the girl than she did.

The girl attempted to hoe the garden free of decades of weeds, while her cat lay in the sun watching her. The forest had, undoubtedly, encroached on the little plot during the years since anyone had lived there. But the girl seemed unaware of its potential dangers, turning her back on the trees as she worked. And letting her task carry her far too close to its edge. He could almost have reached out and touched her from where he stood at least once. Not good.

There were other men in the forest, rougher men, with less to lose. Well, no. No one had less to lose than Gaian did. But men who would take what they could lay their hands on. Bandits. Deserters. Though he made it his business to clear them out, when he found them. This place wasn't safe for a woman and a girl alone.

There was something about the daughter, a soft green glow he could sense even with his eyes closed. Somewhere, at some time, Gaian had known another woman with such a glow. More than one. Those women had been important to him. If only he could recall where and when. It was so hard to remember anything before the forest. But he did know what that aura meant, that and the grey cat; the girl was a descendant of the Goddess. And so, even more than most, had a claim on his protection. He looked down at his own grey cat to see her watching the other cat with interest.

Gaian didn’t often come to this part of the forest, though he’d forgotten why. He wouldn’t have been here now, except for the bandits he was tracking. He’d have to change that, make sure that no men who might hurt these women came anywhere near them. They had no other protector. It was his purpose . . . at least until he could remember what it was that had brought him to the forest in the first place.

This much he knew: Protection was what his Strength was for. What it had always been for.

IV: Purpose

Margan patted Sunbeam’s shoulder as he finished brushing the palomino warhorse down. The horse had been a birthday gift, three years ago, brought all the way over the mountains from Versenna by Uncle Alander on one of his regular trips as private courier for secure messages between Mother and her family. The gift had only made Margan more restless.

The spring equinox—and his birthday—was in three days. He’d be eighteen. Margan meant to leave soon after, whatever Mother thought about it. He lifted his face briefly to the sky, feeling for the currents of weather, and frowned. There’d be rain tonight, but he thought the weather would clear again after that.

He’d rather persuade Mother that he was old enough to undertake this journey. Finally. And not just because he was frustrated with always being put off with feeble excuses. On the other hand, if Mother and the others still had the King of Khatar on their side . . . well, the king had the power—if not the right—to stop Margan from leaving. Maybe this meeting he’d been called to attend would give him the opportunity to make his case again.

He gave Sunbeam another pat. Wish me luck, boy. He picked up his cat and headed into the Palace.

~~~

Margan took the familiar path across the main courtyard toward the library adjacent to the king’s offices, chewing on one of the many questions no one had ever been willing to answer for him. Why did he and Mother live in the Palace instead of the Temple like the other unmarried—or widowed—Healers? It could be, he supposed, because Mother was the eldest daughter of the ruling prince of Versenna. But the old king, King Deriad, had claimed it was for their safety, under his personal protection. Margan couldn’t see that there’d ever been any need for that.

As he neared his destination, he heard familiar voices coming from the library. When he’d received the summons, he’d expected to meet with his mother and grandfather. From the doorway, he could see several people gathered around the big table. Mother was there, along with Grandfather, Uncle Alander, and Hyrtin. Even more surprising, the new king, Uncle Merlanan, sat at the far end of the table. Margan blinked. He couldn’t think of anything he’d done that would earn him the interest of all of them—especially the king. Surely it wasn’t his desire to go to Versenna.

Uncle Merlanan looked up. Ah, there you are, nephew. Come in, shut the door, and sit down.

Margan complied, taking the empty chair between Mother and Grandfather and settling Mrow in his lap. Mother’s cat, Luna, stretched across to touch noses with his cat. He looked around the somber faces and once again tried to think of anything he might have done. Clearing his throat nervously, he asked, What’s this about?

Mother let out a long breath before answering. She took a page from the table and handed it to him. A Temple courier brought this to the Temple this morning. That’s a copy, of course. The original has already been bound into the Book of Prophecies.

Margan looked down at the page and read,

Fatherless, Weather has grown strong and true,

Taught and guided by blood,

Protected by blood and Temple.

Now the time arrives to seek his lost father

And complete the prophecy.

He drew in a sharp breath. That part about seeking his lost father was too close to his own thoughts. Is this about . . . me?

It can only refer to you, Mother said.

Worse, that same prophecy will likely reach Cordan soon, Grandfather added. Our chance of maintaining secrecy is slight. At best.

Perhaps . . . not yet. Uncle Alander stood up and paced across that side of the room. The Temple couriers dare the pass road as soon as the chance of blizzards is over, if their messages are urgent enough. But this prophecy must reach Juturna by sea. And the ship captains are a more cautious lot.

Still, Uncle Merlanan put in, I wouldn’t want to wager the boy’s life on that. Better to take the time to be well-prepared, rather than trust to questionable secrecy.

None of this made any sense. Um, Margan interrupted. Excuse me. What are we talking about?

Grandfather laughed. You, lad. You’re finally going to get what you’ve wished for these last three years. You’re going back to Versenna, to find your father.

Margan was briefly struck silent. That was exactly what he’d been planning to plead for—again. He’d been marshalling his arguments for days. But . . . But my father’s dead. Struck by lightning three months before I was born. You mean find my father’s grave.

No, boy. I mean find your father.

He’s dead. Margan looked from face to face. Isn’t he? And if Father is alive, why am I just finding out about it? And why did he leave me and Mother? That didn’t sound at all like the man Mother—and everyone—had always told him about.

Something must have shown on his face, because Mother laid a hand on his arm. Not . . . exactly. It’s complicated.

Margan could hear his own blood rushing in his ears. If my father didn’t die before I was born, where has he been all this time? What’s complicated about him leaving us like that?

"Gaian did die. Uncle Alander sank back into his chair. There’s no doubt of that. I was there."

Margan turned to his uncle. I don’t understand.

Mother tapped his arm to reclaim his attention. It’s something that probably should have been explained to you before this. When you were younger, it was too complicated for you to understand. And . . . since you started begging to be allowed to go back to Versenna, we judged it too dangerous to tell you. She drew in a deep breath. Gaian was not just a descendant of the Goddess, he was Her own son.

Margan stared at his mother, then at his grandfather.

It’s true, Grandfather said. Gaian was conceived in the Temple Sanctuary in Juturna on the night after I won my first Great Combat. And born on the autumn equinox.

Mother nodded. "As an immediate son of the Goddess, there was always a possibility that he could Become a god, himself—the Sky God. If he burned to death. Gaian had always intended to try, though he’d meant to do it much later in his life. He would never have abandoned you, or me, willingly. There’s a prophecy about it in the Temple library. Here’s a copy."

She placed another piece of paper in front of Margan. He glanced down and read it through—twice.

One day, a child of the Goddess will Ascend to join her,

Ruling the sky as She rules the earth.

Many will try and fail first.

To Become, the mortal flesh must first burn,

Leaving only the immortal.

But even that is not enough.

The help of Strength and Healing, Dreams and Weather

All will be needed.

Guard them well,

For their loss could mean disaster.

Weather couldn’t refer to him, could it? Yes, he had a knack for predicting a change in the weather, but how was that supposed to . . . help his father Become a