Tornain: The Prophecy of Kawiti

By Writa Bhattacharjee

The battle between good and evil is everlasting. Once it took the form of a war for Pretvain and the very soul of all life between Astoreth and Zavakthe two most powerful beings ever born. Five thousand years later, that struggle is about to be reignited with the prophesied rebirth of Astoreth and Zavak. On the fateful day, four children are born in mysterious circumstances. Which of them is Astoreth, and which is Zavak? Who are the other two? Why are they born at the same time? How will the tumultuous world they are born into shape their lives? As the forces of destiny begin to churn, the fate of the universe is uncertain, and the future of Pretvain depends on the answers to these elusive questions.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Partridge Publishing India
• Release date: Feb 14, 2018
• ISBN: 9781543702002

Writa Bhattacharjee

Writa has been writing since the age of seven. This is her first foray into a major series. In this series, she melds elements of Indian folk and fairy literature with Western epic fantasy traditions. Hers is a refreshing new voice in the genre of epic fantasy in Indian literature.

Book preview

Copyright © 2018 by Writa Bhattacharjee.

ISBN:      Hardcover      978-1-5437-0202-6

      Softcover         978-1-5437-0201-9

      eBook         978-1-5437-0200-2

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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CONTENTS

Astoreth and Zavak

Part One

Chapter 1 High Treason

Chapter 2 Death of a King

Chapter 3 Mount Idhaghloz

Chapter 4 A Miraculous Birth

Chapter 5 Switched

Chapter 6 Stronger Than Hate

Chapter 7 The Disappearance of Mesmen

Chapter 8 Fugitive

Chapter 9 Apple of His Father’s Eye

Chapter 10 Avator

Chapter 11 Temeron’s Plight

Chapter 12 News of Mesmen

Chapter 13 The Tracking Crystal

Chapter 14 Rosa’s Revenge

Chapter 15 Smith’s Apprentice

Chapter 16 All One’s Duties

Chapter 17 Sins of the Father

Chapter 18 Lucky Charm

Astoreth and Zavak

Part Two

Chapter 19 A New Leader

Chapter 20 The Fourteen Veradhen

Chapter 21 Heart to Heart

Chapter 22 A Royal Tour

Chapter 23 Escape from Ustillor

Chapter 24 Suitors

Chapter 25 The Prophecy of Kawiti

Chapter 26 Wheat from Chaff

Chapter 27 The Librarian

Chapter 28 Warmth in Vernurt

Chapter 29 Champions of the Veradhen

Chapter 30 Eamilus

Chapter 31 A Walking Question Mark

Chapter 32 Farming Barren Land

Chapter 33 The Burden of Blood

Chapter 34 Astoreth’s Sword

Chapter 35 Hravisht-envar

Chapter 36 The Curse of Rogran

Astoreth and Zavak

Part Three

Chapter 37 Meizha’s Choice

Chapter 38 News of Vyidie

Chapter 39 Khayper Attack

Chapter 40 Twist of Fate

Chapter 41 The Obetulfer

Chapter 42 Bow and Arrow

Chapter 43 The Seven Realms

Chapter 44 Someone Else’s Comfort

Chapter 45 Born Hunter

Chapter 46 News of Kiel

Chapter 47 Innate Magic

Chapter 48 New Students, New Teacher

Chapter 49 Red Hall

Chapter 50 Hide and Seek

Chapter 51 His Son’s Hero

Chapter 52 A Parting of Ways

Chapter 53 The Witch of Temtema

Chapter 54 After the Rauzditr’s Wedding

Astoreth and Zavak

Appendices

Appendix 1 Translations of Poems and Songs into Volegan

Appendix 2 A to Z Glossary of Book One: The Prophecy of Kawiti

Appendix 3 The Yennthian Calendar

Appendix 4 Understanding Age in Yennthem—A Comparison of Biological Ages of the Different Races

This book is dedicated to my ancestors. This book is what it is, and I am who I am, because of you.

I was born by myself but carry the spirit and blood of my father, mother and my ancestors. So I am really never alone. My identity is through that line.

— Ziggy Marley

There are some I must thank for making this book possible. My utmost gratitude to:

First, my parents Mrs Aleya Bhattacharjee and Mr Nirmalya Bhattacharyya, for always encouraging me.

Next, Writankar Bhattacharya, my brother, and Gargi Chakrabarti, my sister (from another mother!), for lending me a helping hand whenever I’ve needed one.

Then, Vasu Kanna, Mr Shree Krishna and Prudvi Raj S for your feedback and encouragement.

Also, Dr Ankuran Dutta and the late Dr Anamika Ray, for years of unstinting friendship and continuing support.

Mr Rahul Chakraborty, for the beautiful images that adorn the cover and pages of this book and that have brought my imagination to life.

The team at Partridge India for their professional and considerate handling of this book and all my requests during the process of its publication.

Most importantly, my husband Arindam Pal, without whom this book would not have been possible, who is my rock, my eagle-eyed proofreader, my discerning editor, my meticulous cartographer, my passionate fan, my ardent critic, my morale booster, my sparring partner, my sounding board . . . I will run out of words before he runs out of ways to support me.

And, finally, my babies—Frodo, Sam, Merry, Pippin and Eva—for their wholly feline brand of unconditional love and enthusiastic ‘help’!

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A Tale Old Yet New

From beyond the mists of time and tide,

Where dreams and fancies still abide:

A prince riding a Pegasus white.

Battles and voyages that excite.

Kocovusas disguised as lovely queens.

Talking beasts and magic beans.

Monsters hidden in a secret den.

Great lords and wise old men.

Ghosts, hrenks and mermaids.

Blaring horns and flashing blades.

Likeable rogues and mysterious sailors.

Prophesies, curses, omens, augurs.

Trees that bear fruits of gold.

Caves filled with treasures untold.

Heroes thrown into mortal peril.

The ageless fight ’tween good and evil.

A tale as old as sun and rain,

Yet, in telling, new again!

Astoreth and Zavak

(1 A.N.)

T he two figures stood facing each other at the centre of the battlefield. Tall, lithe and well knit, they eyed one another with curiously equanimous stances, despite the boiling hostility of the forces massed around them. They wore similar expressions of practised imperturbability. In truth, either was as tense as a drawn bow. Both were experienced and brilliant warriors, rulers and leaders. The pride on their countenance bore witness to their grandeur and power. A certain undeniable resemblance showed in the lines of their sharp features, in the breadth of their shoulders, in the alertness of their postures and in the gracefulness of their movements, resemblance enough that in the dark one might have been mistaken for the o ther.

But in broad daylight, they could not have looked more different. One of them was fair with deep blue eyes and flaxen hair, the archetypal eighe. His face was noble and radiant, its elegance awe-inspiring. He wore an armour of gleaming simlin—the rare spun gold whose secret was known only to the dharvhs—inlaid with purple enamel in the shape of a flying Pegasus, the symbol of the royal house of Effine. An aura of brilliant white light surrounded him. Behind him were arrayed legions of eighe soldiers dressed in the armours and colours of the three eighe kingdoms. Between the long eighe columns could be seen regiments of soldiers of other races—jamarrons, humans, fraels and dharvhs. Flanking the eighe army were several columns of warriors unlike any ever seen by mortal eyes. Soldiers of obsidian—black and cold—that were a gift from the guardian Yodiri to fair Astoreth. Astoreth, king of Effine, the noblest and most valiant of all the eighes, was the champion of the mortals against the forces of evil in the greatest battle ever fought for the possession of Yennthem.

His opponent was Zavak, lord of Vynobhem. He was dark, with black, unnaturally deep-set, brooding eyes. His face was haggard to the point of being skeletal and there was something bestial in the thin lines of his lips and his fang-like crooked teeth. The pallor of his complexion clashed with the jet-black of his armour set with glinting scales. The light reflecting off the scales made it look alive! It was said to be made from the hide of a basilisk skinned while still living. The emblem of a skeletal beast, half-horse, half-tiger, wreathed in flames, was emblazoned on it in vivid, lifelike colours. The aura around him was darker than that of any eighe; it was almost black, and as he moved, a column of darkness seemed to hover upon the earth. Behind him stood hordes of kocovuses, hrenks, ghrimbens, boggarts, ogres, ghosts, ghouls, wights, trolls, revenants, shadow-warriors, khaypers, phantoms, fiends, mertkhezi, ettins, wayhorns, parevims, slanderns, shades, hags and many other nameless and bloodthirsty terrors of Vynobhem, eager to sink their teeth into mortal flesh and tear the inhabitants of Yennthem limb from limb.

Long ago, the creatures of Vynobhem had roamed Yennthem openly, using the portals between the two spheres. They had freely attacked mortals and wreaked havoc. Then the magi of Maghem, along with the eighes, had driven them from Yennthem and had sealed the portals. The cost in lives had been great but Yennthem had received a chance to flourish. The eighes, the wisest and the most influential among all the mortal races, had established their kingdoms and had built up an empire filled with wonders and glories. The other races of Yennthem—fraels, dharvhs, humans, draconians, phrixes, vanners and larpisens—had been in their infancy when the eighes had ruled at the peak of their glory. The only other race with a truly developed civilisation had been the jamarrons. These two disparate civilisations had reached a consensual peace, which had allowed both to prosper.

The progress had lasted for many diuras, until Zavak not only broke open the seals that held Vynobhem at bay but conquered that fearsome land filled with unnameable terrors. At first, the mortals had hoped that it would be for the best. They had been mistaken. The threat to all life on Yennthem returned with redoubled force. The very existence of Yennthem hung in the balance as the forces of mortals, led by Astoreth, met the forces of the vynobnie, led by Zavak, in a surreal battlefield between the two spheres of existence. Sons of the most renowned eighe ruler of all time, powerful beyond mortal comprehension, masters of magic and sorcery, undefeatable in combat and rumoured to be immortal, Astoreth and Zavak led their armies into battle with a skill and fury that had never been seen or imagined. For days the battle raged with thousands of casualties on both sides and neither army gaining—or losing—an inch. The eighe warriors cut down their enemies like fire devouring open grasslands; the soldiers of Yodiri were machines of destruction; the vynobnie ripped and tore and hacked the yennthian forces without care or compunction. On the sixteenth day of the war, the two eighes who held the balance of the universe in their hands met in the middle of the battlefield, surrounded by their followers, who momentarily stopped fighting and waited with bated breath to see what would transpire.

However, the brothers just stood there appraising each other. They had not met in over a decadus, though neither had been without news of the other. As they stared mutely, the masks of placidness fell from their faces. Zavak looked furious; he had both wanted this encounter and detested the thought of it. Astoreth looked sad; the expression on Zavak’s face—grim, determined and filled with anger and hate—cut him to the quick. Even in the shadow of death and destruction, Astoreth looked proud and handsome. Zavak too had been equally handsome once. Now he looked warped, a wreck and a mockery of his former self. Though both had known that this moment would come, and both had their weapons ready—Astoreth, his sword Fylhun, forged by the guardian Lokare himself, and Zavak, his sword Zyimmiron—they found it easy neither to attack, nor to speak.

Astoreth was the first to break the silence. He said with feeling, ‘Zavak, there is still time to halt this madness and return to sanity.’

Zavak sneered, ‘Astoreth, you have always preferred the path of peace. You have always run from strife. Yet, it is the law of nature that nothing can be achieved without strife. Peace breeds nothing but stagnancy.’

‘And what are you trying to achieve? Is it even worth achieving? Is it worth the strife?’

‘How would you know if it is? You have never faced strife! All your life you have had everything for the asking. How would you, the beautiful and wonderful Astoreth, know what is worth fighting for?’ Zavak spat bitterly.

‘Beautiful and wonderful! Yes, that is what they say about me. Once they said it about you too. Once you were as I! Now you are called a monster! The vynobnie have turned you into this dreadful thing. They have warped you beyond all reach of beauty and grace!’

‘No!’ cried Zavak. ‘They have done nothing to me. Yes, I am warped and terrible and frightful to behold, but I alone am responsible for that. I have done this to me, not the vynobnie. Yes, I was as you were. But I did not want to be so. I chose to be this; monster I am called, and monster I am. Not because of what was chosen for me, but because of what I chose.’

The sullen pride in his voice was evident.

‘Why? Why did you choose this insane path? You had everything—beauty, wisdom, grace, power, wealth, fame, love—everything you could have asked for. Why did you have to choose this terrible fate? You were born an eighe. Why did you have to delve into the heart of Vynobhem and become this creature that all are terrified of? You were so powerful, so clever. What could you not have done with your life? And this monstrosity, this evil, is what you chose!’

The pain in Astoreth’s voice was unmistakable.

Zavak answered coldly, ‘I am, at least, not a hypocrite. All you eighes claim to be so much better than all other beings. You pretend to be friends of the weaker races while never allowing them to grow stronger. Your precious world order, designed to ensure that the eighes rule the world, is warped and monstrous.’

‘And this is how you seek to rectify it?’ cried Astoreth. ‘By adopting the life of the hateful vynobnie? By destroying all mortals?’

‘Sometimes destruction is the only way to betterment,’ Zavak answered glibly.

Astoreth smiled grimly and said, ‘You don’t really believe that, do you? You might tell it to those foolish enough to throw their lot in with you in destroying this world. You might even tell this to silence your conscience—if you still have one—but you cannot fool yourself. You are doing this because of personal reasons. You hate the world because you feel slighted, and this is how you want to take revenge.’

‘Even if what you say is true, who is to prove me wrong? Do you think that this army of yours can stop the vynobnie? Sooner or later, Yennthem will fall. No one can stop that—not you and not your army,’ Zavak said, ice in his voice.

‘Maybe we cannot. But you can! No death and destruction need happen. You can prevent the annihilation of the world,’ Astoreth insisted. ‘I promise you that if you stop this war, you will get anything you want.’

‘Anything?’

‘Yes, anything. No price is too high for peace.’

Zavak laughed, a spine-chilling, ironic guffaw, and said, ‘You would have me betray Vynobhem to you in the name of peace. You would have me believe that I will be welcomed back by the eighes if I do so. Well, you can keep your welcome to yourself. Do you think I do not know towards what you have been working? I know how you have prepared to destroy me, even as you speak to me of turning back. I know that even the guardians are terrified of me and have rallied behind you to help you destroy me. How will you convince them to give me what I want? What will you do if I want all the spheres—the entire universe—all of Pretvain? Will you fight by my side to take it?’

‘Your love for blasphemy seems to match your lust for power,’ Astoreth said coldly.

‘Are you saying that the kaitsyas haven’t helped you in your preparations to kill me?’ Zavak asked innocently. ‘Or that you have no intention of destroying me?’

‘What choice do I have? There is no other who can stop you. You think it pleases me to have to do any of this?’ Astoreth was beginning to sound angry. ‘It might give you pleasure to think of killing your brother; it pleases me not! I am offering you a final chance to make peace and live. But I will kill you if you leave me no choice.’

Zavak mocked him, ‘What choice do I have? None, as always, I daresay. Always the same old Astoreth. Always pleading compulsion. You fool! You always have a choice. Always have had—all your life. You simply refused to choose. You enjoyed being the chosen one, being the beloved hero of all the mortals. I, on the other hand, refused to let others choose for me. Whatever I am today is because of my choices, not those of others. And I am proud of that!’

‘You hate me, don’t you?’ Astoreth sighed.

‘Yes, I do,’ Zavak conceded flatly.

‘Yet, I do not hate you. Zavak, you are my brother. We had a blood pact once to live and to die together. How can I hate someone who has been half of my life and half of my world for all the time that I have existed? Even as I fight you today, I cannot bring myself to hate you. And, I believe that you, too, deep in your heart, love me as I love you. You can deny it but you cannot get rid of it, no matter how hard you try.’

This statement seemed to enrage Zavak more than anything else that Astoreth had said. He raised Zyimmiron and, letting out a bloodcurdling roar, attacked him. The latter was prepared and skilfully blocked him. Zavak changed tactics and attacked again. Again, Astoreth blocked. Pushing Zyimmiron aside with Fylhun, Astoreth aimed a blow at Zavak’s neck, which would have beheaded him if he had not swiftly knelt down. From his kneeling position, Zavak thrust at Astoreth; his sword met nothing but air. Astoreth had moved aside and was now standing behind him, slashing at him. It was the work of a fraction of a momon for Zavak to parry the attack and swivel round to meet his opponent face to face. The duel continued to rage through the evening, neither getting in under the other’s guard. The two fought so furiously and swiftly that the dust rose around them like a wall, blocking them from the onlookers. They appeared to the watchers like blurs, sparks of fire indicating the clash of their weapons.

Suddenly, Astoreth’s armour caught the setting sun and glinted, blinding Zavak momentarily. Astoreth saw his opportunity and plunged at Zavak’s chest. Zavak was quick to recover and moved just in time to avoid the deadly blow. However, he wasn’t quick enough. The sword cut through his armour and nicked his chest. Zavak couldn’t believe it. There was no weapon in existence that could penetrate basilisk skin, and yet Astoreth’s sword had cut through it without resistance. He stepped back and vanished in a great explosion of fire and smoke. The smoke rose in the air and completely enveloped Astoreth. He could see nothing though the thick, black smoke; it filled his lungs and choked him. Coughing, he fell on all fours.

Zavak’s form materialised in the column of smoke briefly. His sword was poised to decapitate the distressed Astoreth. Before the blow fell, though, Astoreth vanished into the earth. A column of water burst out of the ground and rose to meet the fiery miasma. The two columns swirled around each other and rose high into the firmament, twisting and turning, moving back and forth, trying to extinguish the other. The figures of the battling warriors could be seen briefly and then vanished instantly again. Evening gave way to twilight, and the sun set, plunging everything into complete darkness. Yet, the battle overhead raged on, flashes of fire and lightning illuminating the battlefield. As the warriors on both sides watched, the two columns clashed with an ear-splitting roll of thunder and exploded into a scalding shower of sparks, raining down on the heads of those standing below. Soldiers of both armies, terrified by the display and the raining fire, trembled.

High up in the night sky, two figures floated, as steady as if they were standing on the ground. Astoreth and Zavak were looking at each other, their bemused expressions mirrored in their shocked eyes, their swords run through each other. They wavered as they felt the life force leaving their bodies and fell. Their bodies struck the ground with great force, creating a crater in the middle of the battlefield. There they lay in a grotesquely parodic embrace, dead. As the truth sank in, troops that had been orderly and disciplined until a moment before gave way to pandemonium. The earth began to quake and great chasms appeared, engorging scores of soldiers at a time. The armies, struck by panic, ran helter-skelter. The soldiers of Yodiri vanished into thin air. When the tremors stopped, nothing was visible save the figures of the two brothers in their deadly embrace, lying in a crater on top of a volcano in the middle of a newly formed mountain range.

They lay there all night. When the first rays of the rising sun fell on them the next morning, their bodies dissolved away into millions of particles of light, bright and dark mingling together in an entrancing vision. Then the particles burst and scattered away upon the air, leaving behind clothes, weapons, armour and all other material possessions. The two eighes who had shaped the destinies of all mortals for ages past and ages to come were gone; they had been immortal and yet had died and dissolved into the very forces of nature that they had mastered and controlled in their lifetimes. And there was but one sole witness to this awing phenomenon.

Part One

Chapter 1

High Treason

(11 Beybasel 5000 A.E. to 19 Patarshem 5000 A.E.)

I n the north of Elthrusia reigned the eighes. Their four kingdoms were Rosarfin, Samion, Lyisl and Emense. The first two were ruled by the fair-haired and light-eyed seleighes, the latter two, by the dark-haired and dark-eyed kereighes. Eighes had the same physical features as humans. However, no one could have mistaken an eighe for a human after casting more than a cursory glance. There was something about the way they moved, the way they carried themselves, the way they talked, that made them stand apart. As a race, they were taller, stronger, faster and more skilled at almost everything. Their gazes were more intense, their actions more elegant and their voices more resonant. It was almost as if they were a condensed version of humans, the archetype from which dilution had led to the creation of humans. In every way, eighes were more refined. It was as if the very essence of their being was more substantial, more potent. And then there were their auras.

These auras were a physical manifestation of their spiritual force and wrapped around them like cocoons of light. Seleighes’ auras were light, like their hair and eyes; kereighes’ auras were dark, like their colouring. It was extremely difficult, if not impossible, for an eighe to disguise the nature and state of his or her aura. The auras brightened or dimmed, darkened or lightened, according to their possessors’ moods, nature and fortunes. Lord Sanfion’s had congealed around him almost into a solid form as he sat writing furiously.

He paused and took a deep breath as he hesitated at the bottom of the page. He wondered whether it would be wise to sign his name to the letter. He darted glances around him; he was alone, save for his wife. She was sleeping peacefully on their bed on the other side of the chamber. She was very fair, and her dark hair framed her lovely face like clouds around the moon. She had eyes as dark as her hair, a thin nose and a sensitive mouth. Her aura was a beautiful deep blue tinged with flecks of silver. As she slept, her aura enveloped her like a cocoon, keeping her safe from nightmares and disturbing thoughts. She needed the protection, Lord Sanfion reflected. She was pregnant, and she had a history of failed pregnancies. She had survived three miscarriages. She had such a delicate frame, almost childlike. Lord Sanfion knew that she was strong despite her frail appearance. The strength, however, was not physical. She had great determination and courage, but her body remained weak and fragile. She had bravely endured the first two miscarriages, though the toll on her health had been terrible. He, the foremost courtier of the kingdom of Lyisl, had helplessly stood by her bedside both times, comforting her. Lyisl was the most famous among all the northern kingdoms for its healers and its domestic magic, and thanks to those, Rosa had recovered quickly and completely. The third miscarriage had been different—it had almost killed her.

Lord Sanfion sighed. His thoughts harked back to those days when Rosa had been pregnant for the third time. They had taken every precaution, and matters had been progressing smoothly. The young couple, still very much in love, had been looking forward to welcoming their child into their lives. Then, towards the end of Niwukir, Sanfion had been summoned to the king’s presence and had learnt that they were going to attack their northern neighbour, the seleighe kingdom of Samion. The Samionites had been making incursions into Lyisl, attacking villages settled in the border areas, and had been sending taunting messages about the weakness of Lyisl and its ruler.

King Rannzen had placed Lord Sanfion in charge of his armies. Sanfion had felt honoured to accept the onerous responsibility. The army of Lyisl had marched on the first of Yodirin. At first, they had gained much ground, thanks to Sanfion’s strategy of moving quickly, striking fast and then riding away swiftly. However, after a couple of temporas, the strategy had collapsed because of the soldiers’ lack of training and the superiority in numbers of the army of Samion. The war against Samion had gone badly, and Lord Sanfion had been captured. When the news of Sanfion’s arrest, and inevitable execution, had reached Rosa, she had fainted and fallen. Heavily pregnant, expecting the baby in five mondans, she had not been able to bear the shock of the terrible news. She had miscarried again, almost dying. The only thing that had caused her to rally again had been his return.

That had been due solely to the beneficence of Lord Holexar, the prime minister of Samion. When he had learnt of Sanfion’s arrest, he had personally come to the dungeons to meet the defeated and shackled commander of Lyisl’s armies. Lord Holexar had been deeply grieved by the war and had apologised for the discomfort that had been caused to Sanfion. He had had Sanfion’s shackles removed and had transferred him to a comfortable house which lacked no amenities. The only discomfort had been the restriction on leaving the premises and on communicating with anyone back in Lyisl. That had not lasted very long. Soon, the process of negotiations and compromise had begun, and though King Rannzen had utterly refused to ransom his faithful commander, Lord Holexar had allowed Sanfion to go free. He had returned to Lyisl, and to his home, expecting to meet his wife and child. Instead, he had found an almost dead eighee. Lord Sanfion had never forgiven King Rannzen’s betrayal or forgotten Lord Holexar’s kindness.

After the last miscarriage, the healers had told him that Rosa was too fragile to bear children, and another such ordeal could very well claim her life. When she had wanted to try for children again, he had attempted to dissuade her. But she had pleaded with him with tears in her beautiful eyes, and he had not been able to refuse her. All they needed to make their lives perfect was a child, she had begged. And he, loving her to distraction, had given in to her wish. Now, the second tempora of Beybasel was over and Rosa was pregnant again, happy beyond reckoning. He had not allowed her to undertake the least bit of strain; there were servants and maids to do everything for her, from combing her hair to washing her feet, from singing to her to carrying her to and from the garden. He had filled the house with domestic magic so that not a single thing could worry her. The windows would allow only the mildest breeze to pass their thresholds, the trees would bend down if she wished to pluck their fruit, the flowers bloomed more fragrantly when she walked past, the fountains played gently and with tinkling laughter whenever she was close, sunlight was as cool and pleasant as moonlight and the earth in the garden was covered with grass as soft as the carpets that lined the floor of their house. Rosa had complained that he was spoiling her and that she would never want to do any work ever again. He had told her that he didn’t want her to!

Lord Sanfion turned back to the letter he was writing. He had very little time. The messenger who had brought him Lord Holexar’s missive was standing outside, waiting to return with Lord Sanfion’s reply. He added the final words that would seal the fate of his kingdom, signed his name and branded the letter with his signet ring. Hurrying outside, he handed it to the messenger standing in a corner of his garden, silent as the night. No words were spoken as the secondmost powerful kereighe in Lyisl handed the sealed letter to the secret messenger. The latter left without a word. He climbed over the garden wall and disappeared into the night. Lord Sanfion returned to his chamber and lay down beside his wife. He considered sending her away to her father’s house until things were settled in Lyisl, but rejected the idea. The journey would be too dangerous for her in her condition.

He fell asleep dreaming of a healthy child playing in Rosa’s arms, her face aglow with joy and pride. A sudden cry, quickly hushed, roused him. Rosa was still soundly asleep. He left the bed and, putting on his robe, quietly exited the chamber. His guards were not in their usual places outside his door. Closing the door softly, he walked down the corridor towards the sound. He paused once to grab a sword off a wall. The house was eerily quiet. He heard whispered voices exchanging sharp words urgently. Lord Sanfion halted. A sense of foreboding gripped him. He wanted to turn round and rush back to his wife. However, he took a deep breath and proceeded towards the hall, from where the sounds had been coming.

As he stepped into the hall, a strange sight met his eyes. Three of his guards lay dead on the floor in a pool of blood; four more stood around, disarmed and held at sword-point. A group of eighes stood near the door, swords in hands, faces unclear in the semi-darkness of the room. Lord Sanfion drew his sword to attack the intruders but before he had taken many steps, two eighes rushed him from behind. They threw him upon the floor. The sword fell from his hand. He tried to fight, but his attackers were strong. A couple more joined them. They pinioned his arms behind him, and hauling him up, half-pushed and half-dragged him towards one of the eighes standing near the door. He was probably their leader. One of the intruders brought forward a lamp, and in its light, Lord Sanfion recognised the leader. He was a large eighe with cruel, bloodshot eyes, a belligerent scowl permanently pasted on his countenance, a crooked nose and a hideous scar running from his forehead to his heart. This was Lord Limossen, Chief of the armies of King Rannzen. Limossen, like all eighes, had been handsome and elegant once. His short temper and his propensity to get into fights had earned him the crooked nose and the scar.

‘What is the meaning of this?’ Lord Sanfion demanded coldly.

Limossen raised his eyebrows. ‘I believe we should be asking you that question!’ he sneered. He slapped Sanfion hard across his face. ‘Traitor!’ he growled. ‘You will be executed at dawn. We finally have proof of your treachery.’

He thrust a piece of parchment in Sanfion’s face.

‘You know that, don’t you?’ Limossen hissed. The signature on the letter was only too familiar to Sanfion; it was his own. It was the same letter that he had handed Lord Holexar’s messenger not long ago. It had been sealed then. Now it was in Limossen’s hands, and open for all to read. He knew that explanations were futile. He decided to plead with his king and to try to explain the truth to him.

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King Rannzen looked bleary-eyed. He had obviously been woken up for the express purpose of trying Sanfion and had dressed hurriedly. He was a boyishly thin eighe with straight, jet-black hair and rather delicate features. His complexion was uncommonly fair for a kereighe, and that, combined with his conventional good looks, made him highly beloved of all his subjects, especially the kereighees. His countenance was grave now though he was usually quite amiable. He sat on his judge’s high chair and looked down at the prisoner who stood in front of him, bound hand and foot, his hair dishevelled, a cut across his left cheek still bleeding, his purple aura flickering uncertainly. Lord Sanfion looked a little unusual for a kereighe. He had curly hair, a heart-shaped, slightly feminine face, an upturned nose, full lips and bright, violet eyes. He was known for his infectious good humour and inescapable charm. As he stood there, he looked neither happy nor charming. His face was grim with nervous anticipation though his gaze was still calm.

Lord Limossen presented his case first. He told how some of the courtiers of Lyisl had been suspicious of Sanfion’s loyalty towards Lyisl from the moment he had lost to the enemy in the north. His unexpected and, indeed, miraculous return had added to their suspicions—why would the Samionites allow a hated enemy to return home unscathed despite receiving no ransom? They had decided to keep a close eye on Sanfion’s activities. The cunning traitor had managed to elude their spies for over an annus, but that night they had finally caught him in the act of betrayal. The confiscated letter was produced. King Rannzen barely glanced at it before turning his baleful gaze on Sanfion.

‘What have you to say for yourself, traitor?’ he thundered. ‘This country is your homeland, and you have betrayed your country and your king to the enemy! We fed you, clothed you and gave you position and honour, and in return, you sold us out. What did Arlem offer you for your black soul, you ungrateful dog?’

Lord Sanfion knew that no defence was going to save him now. King Rannzen was not known for either wisdom or mercy among those who knew him. He decided to tell the truth, in the hope that some day it would be known to all. That would be his redemption.

He clenched his fists and answered as calmly as was possible for him under the circumstances, ‘I have not betrayed my country. If anything, I have attempted to save it from the burden of a ruler whose personal honour is more important to him than his country’s welfare. Yes, I have conspired, but not against my country. Merely against my king! And as for what Arlem offered me, the answer is nothing! I doubt if he even knows of my existence. His prime minister, Lord Holexar, however, did offer me something, and for that, I agreed to work with him to rid this country of your incompetent rule. He offered me his warm and generous friendship. When you left me to die for the sake of satisfying your injured pride, he gave me life and liberty. I am not ashamed of what I have done!’

King Rannzen was not the only one in the chamber who was too stunned to utter a word. For a few momons after Sanfion stopped speaking, all the eighes present in the justice chamber remained shocked into silence. Then clamour broke out as they started condemning Sanfion vociferously. There was little doubt as to the outcome of the trial in anyone’s mind, least of all in the mind of the accused. King Rannzen, to the applause of all, sentenced Lord Sanfion to be executed at dawn. Sanfion was led into the dungeons by Lord Limossen and a host of guards armed to the teeth. He was locked up in a dreary cell, awaiting his execution, thinking how accurate Limossen’s claim of a morning execution had proven. He smiled bitterly at the thought of Rannzen’s shortsightedness and almost felt sorry for him. Almost, but not quite. He had no regrets about what he had done. It had been in the best interests of Lyisl. Rannzen was a weak ruler who had destroyed Lyisl’s glory, and he deserved to be removed from the throne.

Lyisl had been the wealthiest of the four eighe kingdoms. That wealth, and its pragmatic use, had brought prestige and power to Lyisl for anni. Since Rannzen’s ascension to the throne, that wealth had slowly but surely dwindled. Military strength, discipline and training had suffered until Lyisl was barely capable of defending its borders. The king wasted time and resources on playing to the fancies of the citizens, blind to the setbacks that his immature reign was imposing on the country. Confronted with the futility of getting Rannzen to see the error of his ways, Sanfion had decided to take the ultimate, unthinkable step—treason!

He had always known that he was not the only one who felt that way. He had never encountered anyone who expressed that view openly, but his own sources had brought rumours of conspiracies against the crown to him several times before. His experiences of the night had confirmed this. Everything had been too perfect—too staged. Someone had just managed to fool Rannzen and his followers completely by making a scapegoat of him. He, Lord Sanfion, had been used as a pawn to blind Rannzen’s eyes to the true conspirators. Lord Sanfion did not like being a pawn. One thing was clear though: Limossen was part of the conspiracy. What bothered him was whether Limossen was acting on his own or in cahoots with someone. He did not believe Limossen capable of hatching a conspiracy of such intricacy all by himself. However, if Limossen was not the leader of Rannzen’s real enemies, then who was the master strategist whose mind had produced such a devious plot?

The sound of someone walking softly in the corridor outside his cell broke into Lord Sanfion’s thoughts. Who was there? Was it friend or foe? Did he even have any friends anymore? Or had his enemies decided to finish him off in the anonymity of the dungeons, not risking a public execution for fear of an uprising? There was no doubt in Sanfion’s mind that his execution would not be received with equanimity by his kin. He came from an ancient and noble family reputed for both its influence and its wealth. Ancient as their lineage was, they were all well versed in the natural magic and the lore that was the mainstay of the glory and power of the eighes. Sanfion’s brothers and cousins were all powerful lords of Lyisl. Three of them besides him were at the court of Sepwin, though strangely enough, none of them had been present that night.

As he waited for the approaching figure, Sanfion could sense a palpable and eerie quietude in the dungeons; he knew it was the effect of a spell that could put dozens to sleep all at once. He felt curious about his visitor. He knew only a handful of eighes who could successfully perform that spell. He himself had never quite managed to master it. The visitor could be heard unlocking the cell door. Sanfion could vaguely make out the shadow that stood just beyond his prison. It looked familiar.

‘Hello, cousin,’ the figure said, stepping in and closing the door behind him.

It was Lord Carahan, Sanfion’s first cousin, and another of the most important figures of Rannzen’s court. He was officially the keeper of the keys, but in truth, he was the master of espionage. Sanfion wondered whether Carahan had known about his communications with Holexar.

‘Hello, Carahan,’ Lord Sanfion responded, trying to sound nonchalant.

‘I am sorry,’ Carahan said. His voice sounded tired. He stood at a little distance, his face in the shadows.

‘What for?’ asked Sanfion.

‘For not being there to protect you,’ Carahan answered.

‘I noticed,’ Sanfion said. Then he added, ‘It wouldn’t have mattered; they had a letter that I had written to someone.’

‘Holexar should have sent someone cleverer as a messenger,’ Carahan said.

‘So you knew all along,’ Sanfion said. It was not a question.

‘Yes,’ Carahan answered simply. What he left unsaid was more significant than the brief admission of knowledge.

‘It’s all right. I am not ashamed of what I did—Rannzen deserved it,’ Sanfion said defiantly.

‘I only wish you had taken me into confidence. I might have helped.’

‘Perhaps you still can,’ Sanfion said slowly.

‘What can I do to help you?’ asked Carahan, and his anxiety sounded genuine.

‘Help Rosa. Get her out of here. Look after her. Can you do that?’

‘Yes, I can. And I will. I promise. Are you sure you don’t want anything more?’

‘What more could I want?’ asked Sanfion, slightly puzzled.

‘I could help you escape. If you go now, you will be far away by the time Limossen comes to fetch you for your execution.’

‘No, I will not flee. I am not a coward. I am proud of what I have done, and I will happily die for it. If my death can convince the citizens of Rannzen’s incompetence, then so be it.’

After a momentary pause, he took off his signet ring and held it out.

‘Give this to Rosa. Tell her that it is for our child,’ he said, a slight tremor in his voice.

Carahan sighed and took the ring. He again held out his hand to Sanfion. In it was a knife with a jewelled hilt and a blade that was so sharp that the lightest touch could sever a finger.

‘Take this,’ Carahan said, ‘in case you decide that you need it.’

Sanfion reached out and took the knife from Carahan’s hand. Without another word, Carahan turned round and left the cell, locking the door behind him.

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Rosa had been soundly asleep when Sanfion had been taken. She woke up close to dawn to find him gone. A sense of terrible doom gripped her, and she reminded herself of the baby to force her frayed nerves to calm down. Soon after, she heard someone banging on the door. Throwing caution to the winds, she opened the door herself, hoping to see her husband. It was Carahan. He hurried inside, closing the door behind him. Before she could ask him what was going on, he blew some sort of powder into her face and she lost consciousness. She came round in a plush and comfortable chamber in his house. There his wife, amidst tears and affectionate hugs, gently broke the awful news of Sanfion’s death to her. Carahan had abducted her, she explained, so that the king’s soldiers would not be able to find her. The shock of the news made her faint again.

The second time she gained consciousness, she found Carahan by her bedside. He told her that she had come very close to having another miscarriage but that the danger had been narrowly averted. He gave her a soporific to soothe her. For a tempora, she remained bedridden, sleeping most of the time. Even after her condition improved, she remained shocked and distressed. She barely remembered anything that happened in the couple of temporas that followed. She told herself that she would have to be strong now for the sake of her wronged husband and her unborn child. She knew that if she yielded to the shock and pain, she would have another miscarriage. She could not let that happen. Her child was the only thing now left to her of her husband.

One evening, when she was finally beginning to get over the shock of her widowhood, Carahan explained everything to her. She sobbed pitifully and he comforted her. He gave her Sanfion’s signet ring and the knife with which he had taken his own life. When, some days later, she was strong enough, Carahan had another meeting with her.

‘You have to be brave!’ he told her. ‘You have to look after yourself and your child, for Sanfion’s sake. Raise your child so that Sanfion can look upon it from Zyimnhem and be proud. Do not let him have died in vain!’

‘I want to avenge him. What can I do?’ Rosa asked.

‘The most important thing you can do is to look after yourself and make sure that Sanfion’s child is born,’ he told her. She pledged to herself then that she would have the baby at any cost; she would let nothing come in the way.

She left Carahan’s house late at night on the first of Niwukir, almost two anni after her husband had departed on his fateful campaign to Samion. She travelled in secrecy, accompanied by Carahan’s servants, to the mansion of one of Sanfion’s cousins in the east. She travelled by ox-drawn cart and going was slow but Rosa was so deep in mourning, she was hardly aware. On the nineteenth night of their journey, the inn that they had stopped at was attacked by bandits and her attendants were all killed. She escaped with the help of the innkeeper and found herself inside Ersafin, the forest in the north-east of Lyisl. She took shelter in a dilapidated and apparently empty shack. Exhausted, she fell asleep. When she awoke, she discovered that she was not alone. Three very, very old eighees occupied the shack. They were bent, crooked and ugly, wore tattered and smelly clothes and carried staffs. They had lost most of their teeth and hobbled along with difficulty. Their eyes, on the other hand, were very keen, as were their wits. It took them little time to understand that Rosa was on the run from someone. It took Rosa even less time to figure out that those three were witches. She was terrified at first but soon realised that the old witches meant her no harm.

They told her that she was safe with them and that they would take care of her. She stayed on with them and began to learn their craft. At first, it was out of curiosity, but soon she realised how powerful a tool it could be. She told the kind witches her tale and asked them to initiate her so that she could one day use the power of magic to avenge her husband. They were only too happy to oblige. They were all very old; they did not expect to live much longer. They had been afraid that they would find none to take over their coven after their death. They readily inducted her.

Rosa was a determined and eager acolyte. Soon she became quite adept at witchcraft, particularly the nastier variety. When, in Patarshem, they formally initiated her into the coven, Rosa was heavily pregnant but she was no longer afraid of losing the child. Magic had showed her a way to ensure that the child would be born under any circumstance, though at the terrible cost of her youth and beauty. Two days after her induction into the coven, the three old witches bade her farewell, explaining that they would incinerate themselves with arghyll fire so that their magic would be dissipated into the wind and would merge with the magic in the universe’s soul. The next day, Rosa made her way back to the capital city, Sepwin.

Rosa returned to the capital on the nineteenth of Patarshem, 5000 A.E., just six days before the beginning of the new annus. Upon reaching Sepwin, she first went to meet Carahan. He was shocked to find her not only alive but so completely transformed. She explained the changes in her as consequences of her ordeals. Though she told him about living in the Ersafin, she kept the news of the three witches from him. He, in turn, told her that they had searched everywhere for her after the attack at the inn but had failed to locate her. It had been as if she had vanished from the face of the earth. They had finally given her up as dead. He seemed happy that she was back. He asked her to stay at his house, but she declined. She told him that she had come to see her house one last time and to meet Carahan once before leaving Sepwin behind forever. Carahan tried to but could not dissuade her.

What Rosa told Carahan was true, but not quite. She had made up her mind to leave her old life behind, but there was something that she had to do before she could turn her back on Sepwin permanently. Living with Carahan would come in the way of her plans. She had little money with her, but she stayed by herself at a cheap, grungy inn. She changed her mind about visiting her old house; it would give her nothing but more pain. When she heard later that it had burned down the very day that she had arrived, she cried bitterly and then laughed aloud. It would now be easy to leave the past behind, but not before she had done what she had in mind. In her tiny, dilapidated chamber at the inn, she began to wait for the correct opportunity to wreak vengeance upon her enemy.

Chapter 2

Death of a King

(1 Ach 5000 A.E.)

I n the north of Elthrusia was the kingdom of Samion. It was a prosperous and strong kingdom, ruled by young King Arlem and his twin brother, Prince Arslan. They were tall, broad-shouldered eighes with tanned complexions and reddish blonde hair. They had chartreuse eyes and angular features with generous, upwardly turned mouths. They looked so alike that it was almost impossible to distinguish them, except for their hair. Arlem wore it long; Arslan wore it short. Both were strong as oxen and, though not much talented in magic or statecraft, were fierce and valiant warriors and generals. They loved physical challenges and spent much of their time in swordfighting, archery practice, wrestling and combat routines.

They had been very close since childhood despite having different personalities underneath a similar exterior. Being orphaned at a young age had cemented their attachment. The bond remained strong into adulthood and even after Arlem’s marriage to Melicie, princess of Rosarfin. The marriage was the result of a bet between the brothers, and neither had actually expected their wager to end in a wedding.

Rumour had it that Melicie had been forced by her father to marry Arlem against her will. Most found it hard to believe such a rumour about King Melson of Rosarfin. His nobility and honourableness were legendary. However, it was evident that Melicie was not a happy bride, though it was possible that she was merely missing her paternal family. By the end of her second annus with her new family, she was not only settled into her life at Fassinth but also clearly rejoicing in her impending motherhood.

Then things changed drastically. In the palace of the king of Samion, anxiety grew to be the predominant emotion. Arlem fell severely ill with no sign of recovery even after prolonged treatment. Lord Holexar, the prime minister, took over the administration of the kingdom and the royal household almost overnight, and Melicie found herself practically a prisoner in her own home. Lord Holexar claimed that the restrictions on Melicie were for her own safety and for the safety of the child she was pregnant with, but she knew better.

Fair, with flowing golden hair, expressive azure eyes, long lashes, rich pink lips, a tall, elegant, almost liquidly graceful figure and an aura that glittered with flecks of gold, she was the epitome of seleighe beauty and grace. That she had to suffer such a terrible fate broke the hearts of those who had come to know and love her.

In the beginning, Arslan was her comfort as she waited for Arlem to recover. She even suggested sending for a healer from her hometown, Azluren. Arslan was acquiescent, but somehow Holexar managed to foil the idea. Then, one day, Arslan began to find it hard to visit her, followed as he always was by Holexar’s spies. The guards outside Melicie’s doors were equally adamant about disallowing his entry. His visits to Arlem were curtailed as well, under the pretext of allowing the king to rest. As long as Arlem was alive, Holexar could not hope to exert control openly. However, if Arlem died, there was none to stop him from seizing the throne, except Melicie and Arslan. The significance of that fact was not lost on either.

One night towards the end of the annus 5000 A.E., quiet footsteps hurried towards the king’s bedchamber in the dark. The nocturnal visitor knocked lightly but urgently on the door. It was immediately opened by a servant who bowed and stood aside. A tall, thin eighe with a hard, haggard look entered the dimly lit chamber. Though no eighe was truly ugly, he came close. He had small, deep-set eyes and a beaked nose. His hair was sparse and stringy, and his chin was weak. Yet, he had an aura that was very bright, almost too bright, though it was closer to blue than to white. This was Holexar, prime minister of the kingdom of Samion, and possibly the most powerful eighe in the kingdom. He was ninety anni of age and had spent sixty of those in the court at Fassinth. He was reputed to be cold, calculating, cruel, stubborn and ruthless. He knew more about the kingdom than did the king and was feared and hated in equal measure.

‘How is he?’ he asked the old seleighe standing by the four-poster.

‘Worse, much worse, sir,’ answered the healer, shaking his head sadly.

Lord Holexar nodded, his face expressionless. He looked at the figure supine upon the large bed, almost invisible under the heavy coverings, breathing so softly that he appeared not to be breathing at all. As Holexar watched, the sufferer began to stir restlessly but weakly. Dark shadows lay heavy on the room and on the large bed in which the frail eighe lay counting his last breaths.

‘He has been languishing for mondans now,’ moaned the healer. ‘My lord, I have tried my best, but he responds to nothing.’

‘Is there no hope?’ the prime minister demanded.

‘No, sir, none, I fear,’ whimpered the healer. ‘I doubt if he will last the night.’

He wrung his hands nervously as he said these words. He wondered what his fate would be if the king died . . . when the king died.

He had indeed done his best to cure the king, but in his entire life, he had never come across such a strange illness. The king had wasted away in front of his eyes day by day, wracked by fever and violent spasms. Food hardly went down the king’s throat; the moment he ate or drank anything, the king was attacked by terrible bouts of retching. Strange aches mauled his body, and he screamed like a creature of the night until he fell into a swoon, exhausted by it all. King Arlem had had the constitution of a dragon; else, he would have expired long since. Yet the strongest of bodies must succumb to a lack of nutrition. For a tempora now, he had been worse than ever. He was hardly ever conscious and was looking deathly pale. His aura had diminished to a flickering shadow, barely as bright as candlelight. Death could be no more than a mercy for the king of Samion now, the old healer thought. He looked at the shrunken figure lying huddled within the heavy bedclothes, frail as a child. His heart ached for the once strong and handsome eighe.

The strange malady had struck King Arlem in Zulheen. It was the first day of the Ach now. Much had happened in between, including the invasion from Lyisl. Prime Minister Holexar, declared regent by the king from his sickbed, had handled it all. King Arlem was hardly over forty-five, just in the prime of youth, but he looked more aged than the healer, who was over two aeons old. Arlem’s hair had turned completely grey, and his skin hung loose and wrinkled over his wasted muscles. He could barely lift his head. During moments of semi-consciousness, he would gaze at the healer and the attendants by his bed with his large, luminescent, strangely alive eyes, as if trying to say something. Then his eyes would dim again, and he would stare blankly at the canopy over his bed before falling into a perpetual state of unconsciousness. The healer’s reverie was broken by the prime minister’s crisp words.

‘I shall wait at his bedside. It cannot be long now.’

A shiver ran down the healer’s spine. There was something ominous in those cold, toneless words. The apathy in the prime minister’s voice was worse than hatred. It was born of the certainty that comes from the fruition of well-laid plans. Holexar had been regent when Arlem and his brother Arslan had been orphaned at a young age. Once they had come of age, Arlem had taken over the reins of the kingdom. Holexar had stepped down, though there had been rumours that he hadn’t been too happy about it. His appointment as prime minister had quelled those rumours. Incapable of running the country on his own, Arlem had depended heavily on his prime minister. Holexar had had to be content with a subordinate position.

A servant hurried towards the prime minister with a chair. He held up a hand, and the servant stopped in his tracks.

‘Quiet!’ he ordered in a voice that barely rose above a whisper but cracked through the silence of the room like a whip. ‘He is saying something.’

The prime minister moved closer to the bed and leant over to catch the faint words coming from his dying master’s lips. He supported the weak king to raise his head.

‘What is it, my lord?’ he asked, the words tinged with irony.

The few eighes present in the room strained their ears to hear the whispered words that barely left the dying eighe’s lips.

‘He wants fresh air!’ mumbled the old healer and bustled to open a window.

‘He thinks he has made an error,’ whispered the servant who had been snubbed moments before, to an attendant.

The attendant shook his head and said, ‘No, he is asking about his favourite mare.’

‘Quiet!’ the prime minister snapped again.

The dying eighe was desperately trying to say something with his last breath. Then his weakness overcame him, and with a last gasp, he fell back into his prime minister’s arms, never to rise again. The prime minister laid him down on the bed and stood back. The silence in the room was oppressive. It was as if the entire night had died with the young king. The healer held back his tears and rushed to the bedside of his dead liege. The prime minister raised an arm and blocked his way.

‘You have done enough. Go home now,’ he ordered softly.

The healer stood