Shadows of Prophecy. Rachel Lee

cocked his head to one side, as if considering his words with care. “We fight an old battle, Tom. What is to come has already been.”

      * * * *

      The fleeing villagers rested only long enough to see to their needs and catch a few hours of sleep. By midday they were on their way again, following a path that would have been invisible to all but the initiated.

      Everywhere there seemed to be a recognition that they were leaving behind the familiar forever. That at the end of this march, one way or another, the world would change eternally.

      Sara found herself walking among the Telneren, with Tom at her side. The women sang in an easy, lilting rhythm that matched their strides, and although Sara could not understand the words, the melodies and harmonies seemed to reach into her soul. She squeezed Tom’s hand and glanced over to him. The look on his face gave her pause.

      “Is something wrong?” she asked.

      “They sing with such joy,” he said. “I can’t find any joy in this journey.”

      She favored him with a smile. “Not even with me, Tom Downey?”

      “Of course,” he said, his voice faltering. “I didn’t mean…it’s just…so much…and so much more….”

      “Don’t lose courage, Tom,” she said, giving his hand another squeeze. “They sing with the joy of courage. The joy of those who know their cause is just, who know they will overcome.”

      “If the last two days are a portent,” Tom said, “the Bozandari can stamp them out Tel by Tel until there are none left.”

      “And if they allowed themselves to stand Tel by Tel, that might happen. But this is why we march to Anahar. I suspect Gewindi-Tel are not the only Anari with this idea.” She pointed ahead. “Look at how Ratha and Giri and Jenah have fallen in as one. Bonds of kinship are strong among the Anari, just as they are in Whitewater. When trouble befalls any, all respond. The Bozandari will regret having burned the tail of this great desert adder.”

      “Do you miss home?” he said. “At the mere sound of the word—Whitewater—I see my mother bringing a bowl of stew to my father, then sitting by the fireplace with her knitting. And my heart weeps. I wonder how they are surviving this winter, and whether we shall go home to a ghost town.”

      “Now, Tom, you know Whitewater folk better than to say such a thing. Why, look at us. Much hardship have we seen on this journey, and yet we walk on. Why would you think our kinsmen capable of any less? Whitewater presses its shoulder to the mountains. Our people are good beasts of burden. When the load is heavy, we pull together. Let us not fear for them.”

      “Your Lady speaks the truth,” Eiehsa said, during a pause in the singing. “Fret not about what you cannot affect, Lord Thomas. The sun will rise and the sun will set, but the heart beats during light or darkness.”

      “Lord Thomas,” Tom said, chuckling. “I am quite certain I do not merit that title. I am merely Tom Downey, of the village of Whitewater, son of a gatekeeper.”

      “Lady Sara is a noble Ilduin,” Eiehsa said with a deep smile. “I am sure her eye would not fall fair on one less noble than she.”

      “She’s right,” Sara said. “You are the son of a gatekeeper, yes, and a noble thing indeed is that alone. But you are more than that, Tom, and you know this to be true. Much do you speak that a young man would not see, and when you do, I hear the voice of ages on the wind. You are a prophet, Tom Downey. Mark my words.”

      “A master of the obvious, perhaps,” Tom said.

      “Now, lad,” Eiehsa said, “I suspect the Lady will be for tanning your hide if you continue to speak thus. You wonder if you are worthy of her. But that is your wonder, Tom, not hers. Her eyes say she has no such doubts.”

      “Not even the least,” Sara said, giving him a playful smack on the bottom. “So either you are indeed worthy, or I am a blind and stupid girl. I’ll thank you not to imply the latter.”

      “Are you going to let her spank you like that?” Archer said with a deep, grumbling laugh, having suddenly appeared at their side.

      “Um…yes?” Tom asked.

      “Smart lad,” Archer said, winking at Sara. “He knows what is good for him. And I know what is good for me, and for all of us, if I may prevail upon Mother Eiehsa and her sisters for another song to lighten our steps.”

      “Very well,” Eiehsa said. “In the presence of such nobility as Lord Archer and his companions, perhaps our oldest and most beautiful song is in order. We sing it but rarely, yet it is the song that binds our souls as can none other. Sisters, let us sing.”

      Their voices rose together, and even Archer sang along, translating the words for the rest.

      Our roots lie deep in mountain stone,

      On desert sand we stand, alone,

      But not alone, not e’er are we,

      For graced by blessings each are we.

      The rising sun and setting moon,

      Bring rhythm to the heart’s own tune,

      The summer warmth and winter rain,

      Renew our strength to stand again.

      We live as one, in joy and peace,

      And know we all, when labors cease,

      That in the arms of gods we sleep,

      Our souls forever theirs to keep.

      Weep not, Anari, tall and proud,

      Let not thy burdened back be bowed,

      Created one by Twelve are ye,

      Live long in honor, brave and free.

      Sara found herself singing along, her voice dancing with those of the Anari as if born of a strength beyond her own. If the Twelve had indeed created the Anari, then that grace must surely wash away any stain. For in the lilt of their voices, and hers, she found a peace like none she could remember.

      Finally even Tom sang beside her, their voices rising like the dreams of lovers not yet met as if to play among the stars. Long had she wished for this, to hear his voice unite in song with hers. If it took a horrific flight through all the world to hear his voice thus, then every horror was paid in this moment.

      “I do love thee, Tom Downey,” she said, leaning in to kiss his cheek.

      In the instant that her lips tasted his sweetness, a brief, flitting whisper sounded. And then the arrow lodged in his side.

      6

      “By Elanor!” Tom cried, sinking to the ground.

      Archer heard the cry, but his eyes were already on the ridge to their left, looking at the rainbow of arrows arcing through the air toward them.

      “Cover!” he cried.

      The words were unnecessary, as already the Anari were going to ground amidst the rocks, mothers clutching children to their breasts, men unslinging their own bows and nocking arrows.

      Archer reached down and lifted Tom with one arm, the other gently pushing Sara aside. “Let us get him safe from further wounds first, m’Lady. Then you can tend to these.”

      She nodded, her face white as a midnight moon, and scrabbled alongside Archer into the lee of a rock. The clatter of arrows on rock lasted another few seconds that seemed like an eternity, then stopped.

      “Why do they show mercy?” she asked.

      “It’s not mercy,” Archer said. “They have no easy targets and waste not the work of their fletchers. This is but a brief respite, and then they will fall upon us with all their fury.”

      Tom let out a long, low groan, and Archer rested a hand on his shoulder. “Breathe easy, my friend. The wound