Prophecy (The Destiny Series Book 4)
Prophecy
Christine Grey
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with.
Copyright © 2016 Christine Grey. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the author.
Acknowledgements
A special thanks to three of my very favorite waitresses in the whole world, not to mention all around nice people: Cara Moon, Michelle Bauman (Meeshe), and Chyenne Steffens (Chy). Let it be known to all my wonderful readers, that these ladies have allowed me to use their names for characters, but those characters are wholly fictitious and bear no resemblance to their namesakes (except the good parts). Thanks for all the afternoons you put up with me clacking away at Chefo’s Restaurant. What would I have done without your company, your support, and your coffee?
To Elise Abram, my editor. You’ve stuck by me through four books now. I’m starting to feel like I owe you hazard pay. How you manage to do all you do and do it so well, never ceases to amaze me. editor@eliseabram.com
To Victorine Lieske, my cover designer. There are no words I can say except thank you. Perfection as always. www.bluevalleyauthorservices.com
To Richard Houston, my cousin, my friend, my mentor, and my formatter. You’re a rock star, Richard. http://houstonrichard.wixsite.com/books
Dedication
Dedicated to my readers. Thank you for coming with me on this journey. I can’t express what you all mean to me. The words of encouragement, the reviews, the recommendations to other readers…I write because I have a story to tell, but I find joy in the effort because of you.
Table of Contents
Acknowledgements
Dedication
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Epilogue
About the Author
Prologue
The classroom was little more than some logs that had been arranged in a rough square with a flat-topped bolder which served as a desk for the instructors. The boughs of the trees overhead dropped the occasional lazy leaf that see-sawed its way to the ground before adding its color to its brothers in a thick crimson carpet.
A man, who looked not much older than the students he taught, bustled about and swept aside the offending leaves, trying to tidy the area in anticipation of the arrival of his class.
“Grandfather, why do you bother?” scolded a crystalline voice. “Every day it’s the same thing, you clear away the leaves, and every day they continue to fall. You cannot fight the seasons.”
The woman who spoke looked as young and vibrant as the man. An outsider would likely have been confused by the names they called each other, but they had been called by those names for so long, they rarely bothered with their given names any longer.
The man gave the woman a stern look. “Grandmother, I will not abide disorder. Just because the leaves insist on intruding does not mean I will tolerate chaos.”
He stepped closer to her and reached up to pluck a single leaf from her hair. She laughed at him when he scowled at the leaf.
“Leave it,” she said. She took the leaf from between his fingers and tucked it back into her shining locks. “I like it. I think it’s pretty.”
“Grandmother.” He sighed. “Will you never grow up?”
“Goodness! I hope not! Someone has to remember what it was to be young and carefree.”
“I remember,” he grumbled. “It was horrible.”
She laughed again, but busied herself laying out the scrolls and ink her students would need when it came time to take notes during the day’s lesson.
A child of no more than six approached them shyly. “Good day, Grandmother. Good day, Grandfather,” she greeted them. She pulled herself onto a log and sat up perfectly straight, her hands in her lap.
“Good day,” they welcomed her in unison.
“Have you come prepared to hear your lessons today?” Grandfather asked her, his expression solemn as he peered down at her.
She nodded her head and looked up at him in all seriousness. “Oh, yes, Grandfather.”
“I’m glad to hear that. It seems to me that yesterday you were frequently distracted by the grass snake you kept hidden in your cloak.”
She grinned and showed a smile that was missing a couple of teeth. “I’m sorry, Grandfather. I didn’t want to disobey, but it was only one little snake, and he was so excited to hear what was going on that I didn’t have the heart to tell him no. Snakes are very interested in mathematics, you see. With no fingers to count on, they have to learn to do the sums in their heads.”
Grandmother turned away and hastily covered her mouth with her hand, stifling the laughter threatening to bubble forth.
“Well, that makes a certain amount of sense, I suppose,” Grandfather said, “but I think it would be best if you taught the snake privately and outside of our regular class time.”
“Yes, Grandfather,” she agreed, nodding her head rapidly up and down.
A trickle of students began to flow in. They took their seats after some jostling and playful banter.
When Grandmother clapped her hands, silence descended. The only sounds to be heard were the occasional call of a distant bird and the noisy chatter of squirrels, hunting nuts in the clutter on the ground.
“Today, class, we will begin our history lesson. For the older students, this will be a review, but many of our younger students have only heard the lesson in bits and pieces from their elders.” Grandmother turned her back on the group to erect an easel of willow branches on which she tacked a tattered map.
There was some whispering followed by some giggles. Grandfather stalked over to the unruly students. “You have a question?”
A boy in his teens elbowed the smaller boy to his right. “Ask him! He isn’t going to bite you.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Grandfather said slyly. “I skipped breakfast, so you never know.”
“Grandfather!” Grandmother scolded. To the boy she said, “What is it, child? What is your question?”
The little boy looked up through his lashes at Grandfather. He swallowed and turned his attention to the much gentler woman. “I was wondering if we were going to hear all of it, that’s all. Whenever the elders tell the story, they skip the more…i
nteresting parts.”
Grandmother paused before answering. “Yes, you will hear all of it. We believe that editing history is like pulling petals from a flower. It’s still a flower, of course, but it loses something. It is not as vibrant. The perfume is diminished. Some of what we will tell you is probably a bit much for tender ears, so you must be sure to take notes, and write down anything you don’t understand. If there are things that make you feel frightened, sad, or embarrassed, you must write that down as well, and I or Grandfather will be happy to talk to you about those feelings when the lesson is over. All feelings are normal, and nothing to be ashamed of.”
There was some tittering from a group of older girls, followed by a great deal of blushing.
“Yes,” Grandfather said in a huff. “There will be kissing.” He sighed and shook his head. “When will you learn that I see everything, hear everything, and know everything?” The girls hung their heads, having been properly chastised.
“As Grandfather says,” Grandmother continued, “there will be kisses, hugs, and romance.” The older girls looked at her with bright eyes, but some of the boys made faces—some, but not all. “Love is natural, too. You cannot truly understand our history without understanding the motivation behind the actions. Love is a most powerful motivator, but so are greed, hate, and envy. Understanding our feelings is a good first step to understanding ourselves. Almost all of the evils of the world have their roots in emotions and our inability or unwillingness to take responsibility for them.”
“So, are you saying we shouldn’t get mad or jealous?” one of the students asked.
“No, of course not. Those feelings are normal. It is what we do with those feelings that matters. If I get angry at Grandfather, for example—”
“Perish the thought!” he exclaimed, throwing the back of his hand to his forehead in mock horror, eliciting a flurry of giggles from the class.
Grandmother raised a brow and cast him a quelling look. “As I was saying, if I get angry with Grandfather because he has done something that vexes me, that is a normal, healthy emotion, but if I don’t talk to him about my feelings or give him a chance to have his say and perhaps remedy the situation, then that anger will fester like a wound. Pretty soon, I will have no time for anything except feeding that anger until it putrefies and becomes hate. When that happens, the emotion will take on a life of its own and grow like a weed that will quickly take over the garden of my heart until there is nothing left of beauty and light.”
“It isn’t only anger and hate that can be dangerous,” Grandfather added. “Even love can be corrupted until it becomes something ugly and cruel. That is why we tell the histories. It is more than just a tale of something long past—it is a lesson on how we should live now.”
Grandmother glided back to the easel and tapped the map with a delicate finger. "This is where we will begin," she said. "The island of Maj, as it was long, long ago…”
Chapter 1
“Tabitha, would you please hurry up! We want to get going!” Holly waited on the docks glowering at the girl who was slowly making her way toward the beach.
“Holly, try to be more patient,” Carly said, scolding her daughter.
Holly frowned at her mother.
“Do as your mother says,” Daniel added. “She only has a few minutes more to parent you to perfection, and we wouldn’t want to deprive her of the illusion she has that you'll ever be anything other than my daughter.”
Holly giggled. “Yes, Father.”
Tabitha was trying to drag two large trunks toward the waiting ship, but every time she'd make some headway, a treacherous root or rock would bar her path and slow her down.
“I’ll go,” Darius said with a grin. “If we wait for her, you may never leave. Besides, it’s a father’s duty to carry luggage.”
“I’ll help, too,” Brint volunteered. “She’s my sister, after all.”
Looking at them side by side, one would have no trouble telling they were father and son. Darius was a bit taller and a bit wider through the shoulders, but that was to be expected. Brint was only half Breken, which was a blessing. The Breken were a power-hungry lot and tended toward brutality; Brint didn’t have a mean bone in his body.
“Here, Tabby, we’ll help.” Darius lifted the larger of the two trunks with ease and settled it on his shoulder.
“What have you got in here?” Brint said as he struggled to heft the second trunk. “You know, sister, they have rocks in Etrafa too. It isn’t necessary for you to bring some from home.”
“Ha, ha, very funny, Brint. It’s my medicines, and some other things. The Etrafarians are famous healers, and I don’t want to miss my chance to learn from the best. I thought, if I could show them the materials I'm used to working with, they might be able to give me some pointers.”
“Plants. You’re bringing plants.” Brint rolled his eyes. “Well, at least that explains why there are two trunks. One for the plants, assorted vials, and books, and the other for clothes.”
“Oh, no!” Tabitha squeaked.
Brint shook his head. “You forgot to pack clothes, didn’t you? Honestly, Tabitha!”
“I’ll just be a minute, I promise.” She turned back toward the keep, but her mother was already there on the path before her.
“Forgetting something?” Dearra laughed.
Darius hurried forward and relieved his wife of the trunk she was toting, and he and Brint went to the Etrafarian ship to deposit the baggage.
“I wasn’t sure if you'd want your sword, so I brought it just in case,” Dearra said, patting the weapon she had strapped to her own hip.
Tabitha turned pink. It was always the same thing—her mother would never give up hoping she'd show some skill with the blade or at the very least, some interest in it. Why couldn’t she understand? “I don’t think so, Mother. You know I’m more likely to hurt myself with it than anything else.”
“If you'd only practice, Tabby. You could be great, you know. With your height, you'd have a wonderful reach. If you'd only try—”
“Mother, please. Do we have to do this now? I’m leaving. I don’t want to argue.”
Dearra wrapped her much taller daughter in a hug. “I’m not trying to upset you, sweetheart. I see so much potential in you and you—”
“I know; I know: I waste it. All I do is putter with my plants. I’ve heard this a million times.”
Dearra stepped back and gently took hold of Tabitha’s arms. “Not waste it, Tabby. My own mother was a skilled healer, and even I have dabbled in the healing arts. I simply don’t want you to limit yourself. I would never ask you to give up healing, but you could try something else from time to time. You are capable of so much more than you give yourself credit for.”
Darius walked over to them, put an arm around Dearra’s waist, and tugged her closer before lowering his head and planting a kiss on her neck. “Dearra, let her go. They have to be on their way.”
Dearra swatted at her husband, but there was a blush in her cheeks that said she enjoyed his attention. “Will you at least think about it, Tabitha?” Dearra spoke softly, as if she were trying not to push too hard.
Tabitha saw the hope in her mother’s eyes. She didn’t want to disappoint her…again, she just wished her mother would stop hoping for a daughter she was never going to have. Besides, she didn’t need the perfect daughter—she had Brint, dear, sweet, perfect, Brint. What did it matter if Tabitha was never going to be what Dearra wanted? “I’ll think about it, Mother,” she agreed grudgingly. Telling her mother no was a losing proposition, anyway. It was easier to agree and be done with it.
“Thank you, Tabby.” Dearra’s breath came out in a rush, and she beamed happily.
In the next moment, her mother and father were bustling her toward the odd Etrafarian ship, and then everyone was kissing and hugging and waving. It happened so fast, Tabby felt as though she'd been swept up in a tidal wave and dumped, dizzy and disoriented, on the deck of the ship.
She
walked to the back of the vessel as it slid from the dock, watching as her parents and her home slipped farther and farther into the distance. She had never left Maj before, and she wasn’t happy to be doing so now.
“What are you thinking, standing here so pensively?” Aesri asked with her bell-like voice.
Tabitha hadn’t heard the beautiful Etrafarian approach, but that wasn’t unusual. She thought the woman almost floated when she walked, unlike herself. When Tabitha moved, she felt like a giant, lumbering lout. She wasn’t really clumsy; she was just easily distracted. There was so much to see, hear, taste, and touch, that paying attention to where her feet were seemed such a bother.
When she answered, Tabby did so without taking her eyes off the island, now nothing more than a green and gold blur in the distance.
“I was thinking that I want to go home, Aunt Aesri. I hate this. I mean…oh, I’m sorry,” she said and turned to face Aesri. “I didn’t mean…You know I love you. It’s just—”
“You do not need to explain. I understand. You have always been an earth spirit, content to remain in one place. And…you do not like Etrafarians, so I am sure this is very uncomfortable for you.”
“I do, too! You are wonderful! I'm always excited to see you, and—”
“Hush, child. I know that you care for me, but Etrafarians in general make you uneasy, do they not? That is why you and Holly have never been close, even though you are less than two years apart in age. I have even noticed the way you avoid your Aunt Carly.”
“Not avoid…not really.”
Aesri looked at her, not saying anything. That steady gaze of hers seemed to bore into Tabitha’s soul. Under Aesri’s regard, she was reminded of another time when she had faced similar scrutiny. She had been a child of eight, and her mother had asked her if she knew who had taken the berries that cook was going to use to make a special cake for after dinner. Tabby had put her hands behind her back and solemnly sworn it wasn’t her, and that she had no idea who could have possibly done such a terrible thing. Her father had opened his mouth to say something, but her mother had stopped him before he could utter a word. The look on his face had made her feel such shame, but she stood firm and promised again and again that it hadn't been her. Her mother had said that, of course, she believed her. Tabitha was many things, but she was not a liar or a thief, and it was such a blessing to have a child they knew they could always trust to be honest. Honesty and loyalty, she said, were the very measure of a person. Then, Tabitha had been dismissed to go and play. She remembered that her heart had thudded heavily in her chest, as she raced back to her room. Once there, she looked into the mirror, sure that all the color had drained from her face. Instead, the mirror showed her something even more horrifying. There, around her mouth, were telltale stains of red. She had been such a glutton, shoveling the berries into her mouth with such abandon, that her face had been covered with the evidence of her crime. There was no way her mother could have missed it, and she was consumed by her humiliation. The fact that her mother had said she'd believed her…trusted her…made it so much worse.