‘I tie ribbons in my hair, which the wind catches and makes me dance,’ she said.
She turned away before she saw tears.
Lalenda forced herself down the narrow corridor. Every few paces was an alcove containing a bust of some Shadowdreamer past, softly lit by a glowing block of ice set into the wall behind. Their stony faces loomed over her, for Mire Pixies were a short folk, and at six years old she stood less than a pace tall.
Her skin was the same colour as the mud of the swamp where she should have been growing up. Her lips, hair and curving lashes were black, and she had large eyes of cobalt blue – a rarity amongst her people. Most of the time her small mouth hung pensively downturned, pointing away from her upturned nose. Her fingers were tipped with retractable claws, though she’d filed them back so as not to damage the pages of books. Two crystalline wings folded tightly across her back.
She tried to take another step but her legs refused. To her side was an alcove containing the Shadowdreamer Raker, whose bust, for some reason, was not lit. The darkness in his alcove seemed like sanctuary and, without thinking, she slipped into it to crouch in hiding. Time passed. At her knees a pool of tears silently grew.
Lalenda wished she hadn’t been born a prophet. Sometimes it seemed she spent every moment wishing it. It had ruined her life, bringing her to the castle at an age when other Mire Pixies were still being taught the mysterious ways of Swampwild. Children she’d known would be flitting through willow trees, chasing fireflies or teasing humptoads.
Her thoughts turned, as they often did, to her mother. Before she’d come to Skygrip Castle, she and her mother had been each other’s only family. Her father, killed when she was barely flying, was but a face and a voice and a single burning scene seared into memory by pain.
It had disturbed her parents to see their daughter so, pulling on her father’s arm with fear written so plainly on her face – not yet able to talk but wordlessly begging him to stay. What possessed the child?
‘What is wrong , my little Lalenda?’ her father had asked. He had knelt before her, cupping her face in his hands, and she had clasped firmly to his wrist. Into his arms he’d gathered her, but she maintained her grip. ‘I won’t be gone long, willow princess.’ His special name for her. She remembered that too.
Then he’d pulled away. By the time she’d scratched and bitten her way free of her mother, he was already flying. As he’d disappeared into a grove of willows, she’d known it was the last time she would see him alive.
A few hours later his body was found, claws extended, caught in the tendrils of a demonflower. Her brethren had burnt it out, and her father’s body with it. Lalenda stood nearby, clutching at her mother’s leg, finding it difficult to breathe. She had seen this already, in a vision that had come from the future. A vision she had been unable to communicate. She had been too small.
After that, Lalenda had stayed silent long past the time she was first due to speak. She’d wake bawling in the night, and her mother was almost thankful, for it was the only time her daughter responded to her any more. Her poor mother, whose grief had increased as she understood that the death of her husband had also killed her child’s happy, giggly nature. But as time passed they grew closer again and helped each other heal. When Lalenda finally did choose to speak, she spoke well.
About a year ago, word had got out amongst the community about Lalenda’s gift. Eventually it reached the ears of the Swampwild Counsellor. Discovery of a prophet was never overlooked, and soon enough Black Goblins arrived. Her mother tried to stop them, but was struck and knocked out cold. Lalenda had been taken to Skygrip to become one of Battu’s prized possessions.
With the coming of the child of power so close at hand, Battu had taken a keen interest in her. Since Tyrellan had gone, she’d been summoned to the throne room even more frequently, asked questions to which she had no answers. The more she learned of Battu, the more afraid she grew. The dark lord’s moods were erratic, his temper quick and sometimes deadly, and he was as paranoid and cunning as a thief with money.
She had, at least, already proven herself useful to him. It had been two months since she’d foretold the location of the child’s birth. Battu had immediately dispatched Tyrellan to fetch it.
In the meantime, it was unwise to keep the dark lord waiting. Lalenda stood, wiped her eyes, straightened her skirt, and moved off down the passage.
Battu did not enjoy having a crib in the throne room. It looked ridiculous, somehow insulting, standing there by itself in the middle of the otherwise empty space. He would have to assign some chambers to the child immediately.
The pale boy stared up at him, meeting his eyes with what seemed like interest. Battu frowned. The previous Shadowdreamer, Raker, had discovered Battu at a young age, had raised him and taught him – and what had that got Raker? A knife in the dark and spells to follow. Would this child do the same to him?
‘Shadowdreamer?’ came Tyrellan’s voice.
Battu was annoyed to have his thoughts disrupted. This was why he didn’t keep advisors. In Raker’s day, the throne room had thrummed with nobles and counsellors, but Battu had put a stop to that. Battu liked to stare out his long window in thought, and in silence. Of all who served him, however, he trusted Tyrellan the most. He found himself compelled to put up with the goblin’s interjections, even to try to keep him content . Tyrellan was a vigilant pair of eyes around the castle, one who took the safety of the Shadowdreamer very seriously – perhaps something left over from his days as security chief. Tyrellan had been the one to journey into the Midgeon Hills to enslave the ancient Golgoleth Ghost that now guarded Skygrip’s front door. He’d captured the ghost’s amulet, which kept it tied to this world, and personally set it into the archway above the castle’s main entrance cavern. Most importantly, without Tyrellan, Battu would never have risen to power, nor kept it.
‘What?’ he growled.
‘The Mire Pixie is here.’
‘Ah,’ said Battu, turning. He hadn’t noticed her come in, so tiny were her footfalls. She even walked as if scared of attracting attention. He smiled thinly. ‘Lalenda.’
‘Yes, my lord?’ she said, quaking.
Battu waved a hand lazily towards the crib. ‘The product of prophecy,’ he said. ‘Take a look.’
Lalenda ventured forward to look through the crib bars, and gasped at the ivory boy. ‘He’s …he’s beautiful.’
The comment seemed to draw Tyrellan’s attention for a moment, but he quickly returned to his impassive gaze. Unexpectedly, the baby smiled at Lalenda, and she smiled in return. Battu could not remember seeing such an expression on her face in all the time she had been at Skygrip.
He whacked the side of the crib, knocking the smiles from both their faces. Tyrellan’s lip curled in a snarl, but he smoothed it away before the dark lord saw.
‘Now, girl,’ Battu continued, ‘I have some questions.’
‘I will try, my lord,’ she whispered.
‘Mmm,’ said Battu. He paced around the crib like a hulking bear, wrapped up in his swirling black cloak. He began to speak of the events in Whisperwood, asking Lalenda if she could explain them. She could not.
He asked if there were supposed to be two boys, as the prophecy had spoken only of one. Was the child in the crib the child of power? Who was the child who’d been taken north? Lalenda could not say.