Fiction Friday: The Lightstone of Power, Prologue, Chapter 1
A reluctant prophetess must survive a dark king’s temptations and shadow-bound horrors to claim the one relic that can save her dying people—if the prophecy doesn’t destroy her first.
Prologue
Never Enough Power
The sting of failure burned through Moltanon and the self-proclaimed king of Besmontolai closed his eyes and fed the surrounding darkness into his soul.
Grotesque creatures peered down from intricately carved, gold-inlaid rafters into the throne room. The hrafns’ black leathery wings folded over rough, scaly skin, poised to unfurl at his command. Their brooding presence comforted him more than his two immense bodyguards who stood one on each side of the throne.
The broad door opened with a creak of wood and iron. A wiry servant scuttled through and bowed low. “My Lord, Commander Erlendur is here.”
The head of Moltanon’s army strode into the vast hall, crimson cape billowing behind him, boot steps echoing, two men trailing behind.
“My liege.” Erlendur bowed his head and tapped his right fist to his chest.
The others trembled and fell to their knees, foreheads touching the ground. One, a merchant, dared raise his head, though the rest of his body huddled in absolute submission. Next to him trembled a thin man, dust from the trail still coating his leather jerkin and pants.
Moltanon met the merchant’s eyes. “Where is he? This hunter of the Lightstone.”
The man dropped his gaze. “My lord. I sent my contacts, my spies, but they found nothing.” He mumbled his words into the floor.
Moltanon gripped the arms of the throne and leaned forward. “One person. I sent you to find one person. I know the shianin is out there—I can feel him. So where is he? All you bring me are excuses.”
High above, three demon birds craned their necks, their predatory yellow eyes following the movements of the men below.
“My lord,” the scout groveled. “I searched the entire region. No one has heard of this Lightstone. No one knows what it is.”
“Then you did not search hard enough.” Moltanon’s dark eyes glinted and he spat out to his bodyguards, “This scum is not worth my time. Take them away.”
The guards had scarcely moved when a rustle from above caught his attention and he held up a hand. “No, wait. Let the hrafn have them.” The hrafn hadn’t dined in a month and would make short work of their meal.
The scout blanched a shade of white rivaling the blistered sands of Tamor. “No, my lord, please. Another chance, I beg you.”
A shrill whistle from Moltanon and the hrafn sailed to the floor, clutching the doomed men in talons so sharp they could pierce a wooden cask with ease. The guards rushed to open the doors and stepped clear of the beasts. With a flap of leathery wings, the hrafn drug their victims from the room.
“No! Please! My lord, mercy! Please!” The two men’s frantic pleas faded and the guards yanked the doors shut with a thud.
“Those were your best informants?” Moltanon shot a glare at the young commander, but Erlendur stood firm under the intensity of his master’s anger.
“They are...were in charge of the spy network.”
Moltanon growled, “Then the task now falls to you. Only the shianin can find the Lightstone and if I could just harness the divine power of that stone, no one could stop me from conquering the entire continent. Maybe the world! Then Iwould be the highest of all.” He exhaled in frustration. “I want the shianin here in Tandar. Now!”
Erlendur studied Moltanon for just a moment before replying. “I will find and bring him, willing or not.”
Moltanon snatched up a goblet and tipped it back. Empty! He dashed it against the stone floor, the dull clang of gold echoing through the hall. “I don’t care what you have to do, who you have to sacrifice. Don’t return without him! Now get out!”
Erlendur bowed, clicked his heels and strode from the room.
Moltanon gritted his teeth. Besmontolai is mine and soon all of Perlan will be as well. And nothing will stand in my way. He rose and stormed from the throne room, the crisp footsteps of his guards close behind.
Chapter 1
The Haverfest Prophecy
Idenia’s skirts rustled the grasses bordering the path as she hurried up to the cottage she shared with her grandfather. A chilly breeze fluttered foliage down from tall oak trees and their brilliant yellows, reds and oranges mingled with the brown below into a variegated carpet. A cold eddy of wind teased, scattered and swirled the fallen leaves, then gently lowered them once again, some falling into the late-blooming flowers and herbs in the small garden surrounding the prophet’s simple home.
She rested a basket of fruit on one hip and with the other pushed the wooden door open, then cringed at the grating creak of iron hinges. She’d tried to oil them herself with walnut oil from the kitchen but without success. Maybe after the celebration she could find someone who knew how to fix it properly.
Once inside, her eyes lit on the old man settled in his chair and his weathered face crinkled in a smile.
“Sorry I’m late, Grandfather.” She plunked the basket on the table next to two loaves of bread. “The innkeeper’s wife stopped me, insisting I bring you some apples she harvested just yesterday.”
Idenia fetched her grandfather’s cloak and shook out the folds, then gently wrapped it around his shoulders. “Shall we go?”
Tasmon nodded and eased himself up out of his chair, one trembling hand clutching the arm she offered. Slowly they made their way the short distance from their cottage to the edge of the village green. Gelm’s townspeople parted and allowed the two to pass through. The prophet shuffled to the base of the small circular shrine that stood as a symbol of the people’s deep faith in their God. One arm entwined in Idenia’s, he struggled up the steps. She tried not to think of the day when he would be too weak to climb the steps at all and she, as his heir, would have to lead the ceremonies without him.
At the top, Idenia smiled to see Marda already there, ready to help if needed. The older man had served in the temple guard with her father many years before. When her own father died in the wars, Marda had promised to watch over the infant girl, a promise he had diligently kept for the last twenty years.
Idenia stepped back as her grandfather turned toward the people. A hush fell over the small crowd. He lifted his face to the sky, closed his eyes and raised his hands. Idenia watched in awe as a breeze swirled around him, wrapping the prophet’s form in glowing blue tendrils of light. This was new and unlike anything she had ever seen. Gaining power from the holy presence, the prophet stood a bit taller and for a few moments, Idenia imagined him as the strong, healthy man he used to be.
Filled with the Spirit, Tasmon’s voice echoed across the gathering, asking the Most High God of Light for forgiveness of the people’s sins and for another year’s blessings. He ended with the customary closing, “Your ways are right, your ways are just. Most High, hear our prayer.”
With one voice, the people offered the traditional response. “Most High, hear our prayer.” As they spoke, the gentle breeze swirled into a wider circle until it enveloped Idenia as well, drawing her closer to Tasmon. Tasmon turned and stared deep into her eyes. He motioned for her to move even closer and her trembling legs, barely able to carry her, obeyed. She steeled herself against his penetrating stare as he took her face in his hands, one rough palm against each cheek.
“Idenia, my child,” his voice was firm, unyielding, “the Spirit calls you to present yourself at the Holy Temple and dedicate yourself in service to the Most High.”
Chills raced down her spine. She wanted to speak but her lips wouldn’t move. She shook her head against his grasp.
“And yet I have foreseen that you must surrender yourself to his will. The path ahead will challenge you with trouble and hardship, but if you prevail, many will be saved.”
Slowly, the encircling blue filaments of cobalt light faded and drifted away with a final sigh of wind. The Spirit released the elderly prophet and he seemed to collapse from within. His hands fell away and he sagged into Idenia’s arms.
She felt the villagers watching as she struggled to keep him from crumpling to the ground. Marda rushed in and wrapped a strong arm around the prophet’s waist.
The entire gathering stood silent and still. With effort, Tasmon roused and turned back toward their upturned faces. “Bring your offerings to the Most High and may his blessings be upon you,” he croaked.
One by one, the villagers stirred. Family by family, they filed past and laid their annual Haverfest gifts before the shrine. Soon, colorful fruits and vegetables covered the base and coins clinked into a chest.
Yet Idenia’s thoughts continued to haunt her. While it was a great honor to be called, the dangers faced by the priests in the Holies were all too real—and the thought of going there terrified her. She’d heard stories of some who went into the Holies and never returned. Some people couldn’t take the strain once the Spirit touched them. In those cases, they died instantly. Idenia’s thoughts whirled in confusion. This was an honor she’d rather not have received.
Next week—Chapter 2: Thoughts of Danger...and Love
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