Page 49 of Destined Dawn

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 – handwrittenin 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 Æðelflæd 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 Æðelflæd was a real figure or not is much disputed.”

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