“Well, why not?” Jahrra asked. “Why not say when the human will be born?”
Denaeh looked down at her, a hint of some emotion hidden behind those strange golden eyes of hers. But exactly what emotion, Jahrra could not tell.
“Because,” she answered at the end of a deep breath, “because then the Crimson King would know when to expect the one who would mean his downfall.”
“And then he could find her and destroy her,” Scede finished, his voice so quiet they almost didn’t hear it.
But Denaeh did, and returned with the same degree of quietude, “Exactly so Scede, exactly so.”
They sat in silence for a long time, only the sound of the crackling fire and an occasional grumble from Milihn to intrude upon their private thoughts. Of all the possible tales she’d hoped to hear from Denaeh today, Jahrra hadn’t expected this. A human girl who’ll defeat the Crimson King? How is that possible? Humans are extinct. Then again, she had seen some impossible things herself.
Jahrra took a slow breath and broke their hushed surroundings. “How will we know when she has been born?”
Denaeh turned to look at her, her smooth face unsmiling. “I do not know.”
Jahrra nodded. How could anyone know? Even if she were to be born tomorrow, how would anyone know if she was even human? Jahrra shook her head as if to clear imaginary cobwebs from it. It was too much to think about right now.
“Well,” Denaeh gave a small grin and clasped her hands together, “now that I have completed my tale, how about we get to work on these costumes . . ?”
They spent a few moments deciding on what to make of the mounds of horsehair, finally deciding on one of the dark creatures that roamed the earth on Sobledthe.
“I think you should all go as grouldahs, the wolves that hunt down lost souls,” Denaeh offered after they had argued for quite some time. “They have a mane of grayish, grizzled hair running from their head to their tails, and you have plenty of tangled hair here to use.”
She picked up a tuft in one hand and eyed it in scrutiny.
“That sounds a little scary,” Gieaun said uneasily, dropping her handful onto the pile with a soft swish.
“It’s probably the best and easiest way to use up your horsehair, without dressing as horses that is,” the Mystic added, smiling. “Besides, I doubt anyone else will be dressed as grouldahs.”
“I think we should do it, come on guys!” Scede exclaimed, practically bouncing. “We can pretend we are searching for lost souls on Sobledthe Eve!”
With some more pleading from Jahrra and Scede, Gieaun reluctantly agreed on the costume idea. Scede was thrilled. Like any boy, he loved the idea of dressing as a terrifying creature.
“We’ll just tell everyone that we are demon wolves, okay?” he told his squeamish sister.
“Oh, alright!” she concurred in exasperation, not at all enjoying the idea of dressing as something hideous. “I don’t see how calling ourselves demon wolves instead of grouldahs makes it any better.”
Denaeh silently observed the three children, chatting quietly about the tale they’d just heard while working through the tangled horsehair. Although the Mystic’s eyes were open and she donned a pleasant smile, her attention wasn’t with them. Her thoughts were far away from the three young people sitting beside her fire. She thought of Jahrra especially, and as she thought of Jahrra, she thought of the girl’s guardian.
He would have already told her some things; he would want her to be somewhat prepared, but why not everything? Yet it is not just the old dragon’s essence I can sense surrounding the girl, there is something else. She pursed her lips in concentration as she tried to think of what it was that was bothering her; a presence of some other authority in the corner of Jahrra’s young mind, an authority that had some power over the older dragon who watched over her. No, it’s not the Korli who keeps the truth from her. He is being influenced by someone else, possibly someone who could be dangerous. Denaeh shivered as she thought about who could have that kind of power over the great Korli dragon Hroombramantu.
The Mystic stored away her thoughts for another day and drew herself back to reality, seeing the children once again. They were still talking about the mysteries of the prophecy when her full attention finally returned to them.
“She’ll have black hair for sure,” Jahrra said as she braided brown and grey strands of mane into a rope. “Black hair is so intimidating. And black eyes. She couldn’t have blue or green or hazel eyes, who can intimidate a tyrant king without dark eyes?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Jahrra!” Gieaun proclaimed. “It doesn’t matter what her eyes or hair looks like, she has to be strong and tall!” She was picking around the pile of horsehair looking for the lightest colors.
“What do you think Scede?” she added after finding what she was looking for.
Scede was suddenly attacked by two pairs of eyes, and he fumbled a little bit before answering.
“I hate to take away the thrill you two are having by thinking a girl is going to save Ethoes, but I think it will be her army that really destroys the king, not her all by herself.”
“Oh, Scede, you ruin everything!” Gieaun said, throwing her arms up in the air in mock outrage.
Scede shrugged and got back to work untangling his own pile of horsehair, not caring much whether he dashed the hopes of the girls or not.
The three finished their simple costumes that day, and it was late afternoon before they finally waved goodbye to Denaeh and headed home, still discussing the prophecy.
“Why don’t you just ask Master Hroombra about it?” Gieaun queried. “I’m sure he knows something, he knows everything about Ethoes.”
Jahrra hesitated before answering. If she really wanted to know, she would ask Hroombra, but something in the pit of her stomach warned her against it. He would wonder where she’d heard the story, and she wasn’t going to tell him about Denaeh and how she’d discovered her in the Belloughs of the Black Swamp.
Suddenly, as if prompted by some unknown spirit whispering into her conscience, Jahrra remembered the paintings on the walls of the Castle Ruin. Could they be about the story of the prophecy? she wondered. She still hadn’t told Gieaun and Scede about the mural, and she imagined she never would. Hroombra had taken her there, just the two of them, and he’d seemed so saddened by it. Telling Gieaun and Scede would be like telling them Hroombra’s darkest, deepest secret. Someday, when she finally knew enough Kruelt to read the dragons’ tongue, she would go back there and find out. Until then she would just have to wait.
“I can’t ask him,” she said finally, batting a swamp fly away from Phrym’s ears. “If I do, I’ll have to tell him about Denaeh. And if I tell him about Denaeh, then I’ll have to tell him I went into the Black Swamp.”
“I guess you’re right,” Gieaun conceded. “I just hope she tells us more about it next time.”
“You mean, you’ll come back to the Belloughs with me again someday?” Jahrra asked with a smile.
“I guess so,” Gieaun replied, trying not to let her grin show.
The three friends pointed their horses in the direction of home and the conversation turned to the upcoming Sobledthe holiday. As they disappeared over the low hills of the Black Swamp, the strange woman called Archedenaeh watched them closely, wondering, wondering . . .
A loud caw from Milihn broke her concentration and she jumped slightly.