back of his mind was a most urgent thought that had almost slipped from him completely. It was of an order he had given his High Steward Lotharius Fortis before the afternoon was finished, an order that required his attention in a place as private as his study. In an instant, the king’s eyes flashed open and he jumped from his throne.
“Your Highness, may I ask where you’re go…” one of the king’s Councilors began, but he was interrupted quickly.
“When Lotharius returns, tell him to meet me in my study,” the king commanded. Without waiting for an answer, he stomped off along the hall dais to a stairwell and swiftly ascended.
Slamming the solid oak chamber door behind him, the king paced across the quiet confines of his personal study until he reached a small curved balcony, and leaned against its parapet to suck in the night air. The evening was mildly cloudy, but the distance was clear, allowing his eyes to trace the jagged coastline of his island until it disappeared into the atmosphere. Looking westward, out upon the iron sea, toward the incalculable stars alight in the night sky, the king of Hyrendell waited.
Behind him, from the steely depths of the darkest shadows that haunted his sanctuary, the voice he craved and dreaded came like the inevitable death of a thousand lifetimes. Simultaneously baritone and falsetto, commanding and deceivingly compassionate, serrated and unimaginably silky, it spoke in horrendously perfect rhythms to the monarch of the kingdom.
“EveRythIng iS peRfeCt,” it soothed. “YOu nEEdn’T FeaR fOr yOuR LiFe.”
Then it vanished, leaving King Nielius to clutch at his chest.
As it did every time he heard that voice, the same terrified shiver rocked the king’s spine and stroked his skin with prickles, all while warming his heart and calming his mind. The confusion between terror and tranquility that jostled the king’s psyche brought the same comfort to him as being fought over by two gorgeous maidens, like being in the middle of a battle that essentially confirms your existence. And this was the only peace he could find.
The king closed his eyes and nodded silently in agreement. “Yes,” he said, “Everything will be fine.” But his words only bounced off the lifeless stone walls of his sanctuary.
Within the space of a few breaths, the chamber door creaked open to reveal the king’s High Steward Lotharius, followed by two guards who where holding a pile of rags the size of a person between them. A rare smile split the king’s lips as he motioned the guards to release the being. At once, it dropped to a heap of fabric onto the stone floor and began to pulse with slow, sharp breaths.
“She came unwillingly, Highness,” Lotharius reported in his usual abrasive utter, “but she is intact, I assure you.” He strode over to an ancient armchair and plopped into it, grabbing a handful of grapes from a nearby basket.
The king took in his Steward’s words as he paced in a slow semi-circle around the ragged prisoner. Quickly, he glanced up at the guards.
“Leave us,” he commanded in a breath. Without any hesitation, the guards vanished through the oak door, shutting it securely behind them.
The king continued to pace around the prisoner, staring down into the tainted, discolored clothing of his intrigue, quietly formulating the proper questions within his mind. Meanwhile, Lotharius sat comfortably quiet in the armchair, chewing his fruit, his eyes darting between his king and the prisoner. And the heap of rags that lay crouched upon the stone floor, breathing with audible difficulty, began to move. Wrinkled, crooked fingers emerged from some indiscernible opening in the clothing and pressed against the stone, slowly rolling up into an arched kneel. The hands came to rest upon unseen thighs, and the breathing became more controlled. The head of the prisoner, shrouded inside a huge hood, shifted toward the armchair for a moment, then back toward the king’s feet and started to convulse slightly as it released a cackling laughter.
The king met Lotharious’ concerned gaze at once, then snapped back toward the prisoner with a lung full of rage to spew. But his breath caught in his throat as the pile of rags spoke first.
“I know why I’m here, Nielius,” the prisoner croaked, “you can save your breath.”
The king raised his eyebrows, unimpressed, “then speak what I desire, Oracle. The sooner you tell me what you see, the sooner you’ll be returned to that shack you call a home.”
Underneath her ragged hood, the Oracle of Meaden smiled. “You will never return me to my home, Nielius,” she spoke. Slowly, she raised her hands to throw back her hood, revealing her balding head.
Looking up to stare into the king’s furious eyes, she continued, “your troubled life, your entire heritage has led up to these final times, and you are going to lead the kingdom toward its destiny.” Her eyes bore into the kings pupils, burning with satisfaction at his rage; this rage, she knew, was his fear manifest and it hovered inside the emptiness of his soul.
“These vague prophecies you speak annoy me, witch,” the king spat. “Clarify your speech, or I will eliminate it all together.”
“And if you eliminate my voice, than you will betray the entire reason you had me kidnapped, Nielius,” the Oracle snapped. As she pulled her eyes from the king’s gaze, she noticed a hint of comprehension in his brow. Pulling in air from the crisp night sky, she took a slow breath, centered her mind, and allowed the entire Universe to vibrate through her. The king and his Steward watched her meditation closely, for this was the reason why she was stolen during the night.
Instantly, the Oracle’s eyelids snapped open to reveal her trance white eyes. Her chest rose and fell with the tide of her breath, and her throat quivered with an ethereal voice.
“The Legend who once was will be again,” she croaked., “the age of this kingdom has concluded and the judgment of all the Heavens will deliver the land from the Evil One.”
The king of Hyrendell stood rooted to the stone floor, his Steward perched on the edge of the armchair, both pairs of eyes shaking with fear and curiosity as they gazed at the trembling witch.
She continued, “a new age of peace and cooperation will begin, and the kingdom will be ruled by light once more.”
The king could restrain his inquisition no longer. “Will I be the one to deliver the land from evil!?” he barked, his face shaking with avarice, his pupils glaring with fury.
The Oracle closed her eyes and calmed her breath. “Yes,” she whispered, “yes, you will.” And with that, the room swirled around her as she fell into the night, and her body dropped to the cold stone floor unconscious.
The king and his Steward watched the witch fall, but stayed where they were, entranced with the prophecy. Both of their minds raced with every conceivable option of how to elevate the kingdom to peace; flashing between the disobedience of the people and the goal of total unity. The king thought that his laws were strict enough to force the kingdom into one way of life, but he would have to tighten his grip if he was to solidify cooperation.
The High Steward probed his memory for anything that resembled a legend of the kingdom, passing over the ancient artifacts in the castle’s museum to the history of Hyrendell itself. A fog of a remembrance brewed in his mind: a series of moments where he learned of an ancient prince that saved his people from a brutal attack, and in his kingship ruled the land with justice and mercy. He remembered commenting that the people of the time must’ve been foolish to think that peace could be established through mercy. Mercy denoted weakness, and a weak king could never rule Hyrendell.
But
