Chapter 19

19

S pencer

“Rhianna!” someone yells. “Rhianna.”

And then there’s light, white dazzling lights, streaming through the mist and chasing away the shadows and all they contain. I squint against the light, raising my hand to shade my eyes and see just where that light is coming from.

Rhi.

Standing in the boat, the wooden planks white like the ribs of a skeleton, the light pouring from the palms of her hands. Her face is locked with determination, the man in black’s palm resting on her right shoulder and Tristan’s on her arm.

“Well, fuck me,” Barone says from behind me, clutching the rucksack with the pig in his lap, “now ain’t that something to behold.”

It is, but it doesn’t last long. The light races away and Rhi slumps forward.

“Come on,” Tristan says, grabbing her hand. “Who knows how long that will last.”

And this time we motor the boat forward like it’s a fucking speed boat, all of us straining our magic to push the boat through the water, water that feels thick and heavy like treacle, cold water slapping over the sides and lashing at our arms and legs, catching on our legs as if the water itself is trying to catch us and entrap us, but finally, finally, the mist thins and the Gray Isle itself looms above us, ragged and cragged, the convent – weathered and bare – stretching up from the rocks.

We stop the boat again, catching our breaths, Rhi hunched over her knees and Professor Stone spitting into the ocean.

“That was fun!” Barone says, grinning like a maniac.

I consider smacking him right in the mouth.

“You like being harassed by the dead?” Tristan asks, his face still pale from whatever came for him out there on the water.

“It was like a little reunion with all the people I’ve …” he glances towards Rhi, “sent on their way. Good times, man. What a trip!”

“Whatever,” I say, eyes scanning the ragged rocks, the sea pounding against them. I can’t see any obvious place for us to moor a boat on this island, not without being smashed to smithereens. “How do we reach these books?” I ask.

“There should be a passageway through the rocks. It leads right under the convent,” Stone says.

We all scan the rocks and the ocean and finally I spot a slight gap between two high rocks, almost invisible to the naked eye, the flow of water between them the only real giveaway.

“There,” I say, pointing, and slowly, with caution, we maneuver the boat in that direction, the gap in the rock suddenly materializing more obviously as we approach it. The gap is narrow though, barely wide enough for our boat, but once we’re there a current whips us along, through the rocks and then right under the convent into a cave covered in seaweed and slime, the light tinged green.

Here the water laps gently against a mooring and stone steps reach up from the water.

I swallow, trying once again not to think of that damn dungeon. Of the walls crowding in on me, of the pain and the shame and … It smells the same down here, damp and dank, the walls lined with cool stone.

“Spencer?” It’s Rhi’s voice.

The others have moored the boat and tied it to a metal ring driven into the stone. Tristan and Azlan are already out of the boat and on the steps and Stone and Barone are following.

“Okay?” she whispers, concern in her eyes as she offers me her hand.

“Yeah,” I say, taking her hand gladly.

Together, we follow the spiraling stone steps upwards. Soon the weak daylight can’t penetrate this far and we’re plunged into more darkness. Stone forms a ball of light and names, dates and patterns carved into the stone walls are suddenly revealed. I can almost see the past magicals, carving their names before they made their way in or out of the convent.

The staircase is small and narrow, wide enough only for one person and the ceiling so low I’m forced to duck my head. We climb upwards and after a while we can hear noise from above, the wind and the waves.

Stone stops.

“The stairway leads into the heart of the convent. I very much doubt there’s going to be anyone here but .... Rhi?”

“I can’t feel any magicals,” she says.

“I suggest we proceed with caution anyway.”

We all nod, a tension stirring through the magic I can feel in the air. Then Stone extinguishes the ball of light and pushes on the door ahead. It’s stiff and heavy and he has to use his weight against it before it gives way. We pause. Beyond is what once must have been the chapel of the convent, the ceiling high and carved into great arches, although it’s no longer neat and orderly. The pews are all overturned, prayer mats strewn across the floor, tapestries fallen from the walls and goose downing scattered everywhere. It looks like a chicken pen after a visit from a particularly hungry fox.

The place is empty, although candles flicker from holders on the walls.

I point to one. “Someone’s been here.”

Stone shakes his head. “They’re enchanted. Ever-burning.”

“Where are the prophecies?” Rhi asks.

Stone scratches his head. “It’s a long time since I visited.” He thinks some more, then he motions for us to follow him to the back of the chapel, past the altar and to the back wall. Here the tapestry still hangs, all the way from the high ceiling to the cold stone floor. The light here is so poor, the embroidery on the tapestry is as vibrant as I’m sure it was the day it was weaved – the pictures of magic and magicals, dragons and ghouls, knights and battles, kings and queens.

Stone pushes the heavy tapestry to one side and behind lurks a solid stone door.

“That’s the Sacristy,” he explains.

“Is that where the prophecy books are kept?” Rhi says, looking anxiously at the heavy door and its giant lock.

“Yes and only scholars can open the door.” He lays his palm against the woodwork. “Let’s hope I’m still considered one.”

He whispers an old incantation, his magic humming, the door eventually doing the same, and then it clicks and he swings it open.

A light flickers on as Stone steps through, but it’s dim and the air magically cooled. Given the state of the ancient-looking volumes housed inside elaborate glass cases, I’m not surprised.

“Wow,” Rhi says, stepping in after Stone and bending her head to inspect the books. “How old are these?”

“The manuscript of spells is over one thousand years old. Handwritten by a family of witches who formed the first commune. A commune that eventually became this convent.” He points to the case with a scroll, a portion unraveled and on display, black elaborate writing framed by the swirl of gilded patterns.

“It’s beautiful,” Rhi gasps, staring transfixed.

“Where are the books of prophecies?” Azlan asks.

“Here,” Stone says, walking toward a wooden case. He tries the doors and finds them locked and when they won’t open to his touch, he turns to his friend, I assume to smash the thing to pieces. Instead the man in black rests his fingertips and then his ear against the square door and closes his eyes.

“What’s he doing?” Rhi whispers to Stone.

“Azlan has the ability to read other people’s spells,” Stone explains. “He’s finding a way to undo or break through the magic.”

Whatever magic is keeping the book locked away, it’s obviously complex because it takes the man in black almost a quarter of an hour before the doors finally pop open. Behind them lies a thick book, its cover a burgundy leather with golden lettering, bound shut with leather twine. Spilling from the cover are yellowing pages of different sizes and ages, some of the writing visible – a mishmash of different handwriting and styles.

“This book,” Stone says, lifting it with much care from its shelf, as if it were a newborn baby, “is a collection of every prediction the ancient seers of the past made. Some are minor, of little importance, and some are considered much more critical. It includes the six prophecies.” He unwinds the twine and then lays the book on top of the only desk in the room, clicking his fingers so that the candle above it flickers alight. Then he draws back the cover and peels over the first, second and third pages. “These are the early premonitions. There is one that predicts the Great Flood and one the fall of the Hallian Empire.”

“Shit,” I mutter, “are they genuine? I mean, they could have been written after the event, or altered to fit the event.”

“No, they’ve been verified. Far greater minds than mine devoted their lives to the study of such premonitions, hoping to reveal how the gift works, how it could be taught and better refined.”

He flips over one more page and then he stops.

“This is the one,” he says, his blue eyes scanning down the page.

Automatically, we all draw closer, even Barone who I doubt can actually read.

The text is similar to the one on the scroll – handwritten in a curling calligraphy, the first letter illuminated in scarlet, a small drawing of a crown hovering above the letter, and a gold border framing the text.

“How old is this?” asks Tristan.

Stone flicks the page, behind the manuscript another page has been added to the book, this one typed out. Stone runs his finger over the paragraph. “It was believed to have been written after the reign of Queen ?eelfl?d had come to an end. That was the legend associated with this particular prophecy. But no one has been able to verify this and obviously whether Queen ?eelfl?d was a real figure or not is much disputed.”

“You don’t believe she was?” Rhi says.

“I’m an academic, Rhi. I can give you my studied opinion but I’m telling you there is no definitive proof either way.”

“Except the story itself.”

“Stories can be both true and untrue.”

“And somewhere in between,” Barone adds.

“What does the prophecy say, Phoenix?” the man in black asks, hovering by the doorway, his eyes flickering out to the chapel like he wants to be away.

Stone turns back to the manuscript but instead of leaning over the page and reading the words, he waves his hand over it instead, his magic sprinkling like snow down onto the words. One by one the words light up gold like the border and a voice rings out from nowhere, a female voice, solemn yet wistful as if the speaker is talking in a trance.

“And she will come again,

She that fate has anointed,

She bound with the devotion of five.

Born a second time .

When the world is dark,

The light hard to find,

She will come again,

From the womb of the future

and the seed of the dark.

She will rise

with power in her veins.

And when the moment strikes,

She will seize the crown,

Where all must go to learn,

Drive away the shadows and the night,

And she will bring the dawn again.”

The voice fades away and the gold lettering fades back to black.

“That’s it?” I say, astounded. “That’s the damn prophecy we risked our necks to come find? What the hell does that even mean?”

“Apart from the legend of Queen ?eelfl?d,” Professor Stone says, “there has never been another woman or man who had five known fated mates. One, yes. Two, sometimes. Very, very rarely three. Queen ?eelfl?d was the only magical ever known to have five. Most scholars agree that this prophecy predicts there will be another. Another woman.”

“And all that crap about dark and light and a crown?” I say with irritation.

“Isn’t it clear?” Barone says, his eyes twinkling with awe. “Little rabbit’s destined to rule the world.”

“That isn’t what it says,” Rhi mutters, her eyes flicking back and forth over the words .

“It’s what it means though,” Barone says. “It’s your fate to drive out the fuckers in power and rule instead.”

Rhi laughs like that’s the craziest thing she’s ever heard. Part of me can’t help agreeing with her. Fuck, I’m head over heels about this girl, but, even if we somehow managed to take out Christopher Kennedy, there is no way all the other powerful magicals in this country would stand back and let an unregistered girl from the wasteland install herself as the next chancellor, or protector, or whatever else she might want to call herself.

And yet there’s another part of me that doesn’t think that’s crazy at all.

Those words made my skin prickle, made my magic buzz, made the beast stir, like it was awakening something inside me, an awareness. As if I was hearing some crucial truth – a truth I’d always known – for the very first time.

“I’m not some queen reincarnated. A few months ago, the magic I knew was limited to growing vegetables, feeding chickens and fighting scumbags.”

“Wasn’t Queen ?eelfl?d just some girl from a backwater village?” Tristan whispers. “You’re powerful, Rhi, we all know that and we all feel it too, and when we’re together that power seems to amplify. Look what we did just now out on the water! You’ve seen how my dad is terrorizing the republic – and that’s just the stuff we know about. Imagine all the shit he’s getting away with in secret. That’s the darkness and you are the one who is meant to end it.”

“You truly believe that?” Rhi asks him.

“Yes. I believe it. I believe that is why fate has brought us together.”

To my surprise, Rhi turns to me next. Not to the man in black, or the professor or even the assassin. Me. Perhaps because I am the most skeptical. Being locked and tortured in a dungeon will make you damned cynical.

“What do you think, Spencer?”

I’m leaning against the wall, and I shift my weight from one foot to another.

“I think you’re the girl in that prophecy, Rhi. Something in my blood tells me you are. I just wish it was damn clearer, that’s all.”

She smiles at me. “That would make things a hell of a lot easier, wouldn’t it? But what I’m learning is that nothing is easy. Ever.”

“No,” I say, “it isn’t. Not when it comes to you, anyway. I’d say my life has gotten a lot more complicated since you showed up.” I smirk at her.

“You ever had dreams about this?” Barone asks her. “When you were young, little rabbit. You ever dream about us? About being powerful?”

She screws up her forehead thinking. “I think I did. I think I did dream of you. I remember this strange sense of déjà vu when I met each of you. Like I’d met you someplace else before.”

“That would be the bond,” Tristan says assuredly.

“And how about the prophecy? Did you dream about that?” I ask. I’ve heard about the dreams she had just a few days ago – about needing to heal a beast and a monster. The dragon was that beast. And that monster? No one’s said it out loud but I know we’re all thinking it was Barone. “Did you dream about being a leader, a queen, someone in charge?”

“No,” she says, disbelief in her voice as she shakes her head.

“One of those dreams of yours would be helpful right now, little rabbit. ”

She chews on her thumb and am I imagining that or is she keeping something back from us?

“Let’s go,” Azlan says finally. “We’ve learned all we can from this place. Let’s get somewhere safer.”

Nobody disputes that idea and we walk the route we’ve just come, closing the sacristy door behind us and making our way back through the chapel and down into the stairwell. Below us is the green light of the cave and it provides a dim sort of beacon, edging us onward. Stone’s the first to climb back into the boat, followed one by one by the rest of us. Then we untie the rope and push away, propelling the vessel back out into the open water.

We’re ready for the mist the second time, holding our magic alert and ready, not succumbing to the temptation of the call from the dead.

As the boat emerges from the mist, and the violent surf hurtles us back towards the beach, Rhi swings her gaze around in alarm.

“Someone’s here,” she hisses as the bow of the boat hits the sand.

“Yes,” a voice calls out, “someone is here.”

A cold, emotionless voice I’ve come to know so well by now.

Christopher Kennedy.