Foretold

By SDMaxwell

A/N: This idea popped into my head while reading The Wayfarer Redemption by Sara Douglass, which is a recommended book by the way. I happened to pick up my book and only made it a paragraph before my muse decided to be inspirational. It happened somewhere around the lines talking about a person could not avoid the Prophet’s hand. I now can not finish my book until I’ve written this. sighs Oh, yes. Thanks for the names of the characters go to Tom aka Sea Monster.

A walk through hills of yellow and gold

Might gleen a sight of fey of old

To stroll between trunks aglow in light

Would rouse a beast poised to fight

Toward ice and shadow one must go

To find a maiden the cause of woe

In thatch and tree the birds a tale tell

Of a girl turned beast when night fell

There be treasure in mountains sky high

Gold and jewels under talon sigh

A woman whose gaze is made of stone

In a cave where the four winds moan

On the ocean blue a rocky isle

With lovely song so full of guile

Under dunes of sand a bottle lies

A power so great with slave ties

Thomas rubbed the gods’ mark on his forehead, a headache brewing behind his eyes and making his vision waver. Cracking an eye open to scan the words on the crisp sheet of paper. No matter how many times he had tried to rewrite them, they were only ordinary words written in his usual messy scrawl. Couplets were usually the easiest to evoke power out of and here he was, hours later, with only a pile of crumbled papers around his desk to show for himself. It did not help that the couplets were horrible things that even an acolyte could manage.

He moaned and buried his face into his hands. He was a pitiful excuse for a prophet. Who in their right mind would come to a visionary who could not even get a group of couplets to work at will? Never mind that prophecy was not something that was powered by something so mundane as human will

Dropping his hands, Thomas shook his head and reached for the quill again. It was true the couplets were awful and yet they held a place in his heart. These were the first couplets he had ever tried to write without the power of the gods behind his actions. Something inside him had known they would not have worked out. It had nothing to do with the fact that a human mind had thought up the lines since there were some prophets who excelled at such works. It had more to do with the fact that he had written the words for himself. It was a rare prophet indeed who could make the gods work for him.

He studied the words, tracing his fingers along the loops in his handwriting. He did not know why he had even thought to try his hand at such a selfish thing. It was true he was fairly sought after for his services but that wasn’t to be unexpected with him being the only prophet inside the borders of a kingdom so rich with knights and princes. Each one of them wanted to quest in order to gain their foothold into manhood. What more glory could be had than to return to your home carrying a name like “Dragonslayer” or “Demonsbane?” How quick would a neighbor be to invade a kingdom ruled by a man who had single-handed saved his fair maiden from the maws of a vicious were-beast?

Not that Thomas wanted to face a vicious were-beast. He did not even want to become a slayer or bane or anything such as that. He only wished he could experience some of the things he was forced to write about. It was dreary to see face after face take his work out into the world without a thank you or good bye. None of them even came by afterwards to tell him how accurate his prophecies were.

Thomas dipped the quill in the inkwell and set the tip to the space below his last line. Taking a deep breath, he cleared his mind. If no prophecies were to come of his silly rambles he may as well do some exercises. Besides, free writing always calmed him and made it easier for him to transcribe the gods’ will.

Careful, oh so delicately, he started the first curving letter. The dark ink flowed across the pristine paper and he focused on his penmanship. It was embarrassing to be a prophet with bad handwriting. Someone in the future could find one of his works in the trunk of an ancient king and might wonder at the writer behind the words. Not that he had ever had a prince grace his dim little cave.

He finished the loop of the final letter and sat back. The writing looked strange next to the messy couplets. Frowning, Thomas leaned forward and squinted at the elegant curves. A touch of gold swirled around the loop of a C and a thread of silver clung to a dangling G. The prophet groaned, slapping a hand to his forehead. Sometime during his free writing, the gods had stepped in and declared his writing Prophecy.

The crown of fire goes where it may

Seeking peace that men long ago stole

To the beginning where all paths lay

The crown may find a piece of its soul

As luck would have it -- or the gods -- the last four lines did not match the couplets he had written before. Not that the couplets bore the slightest imprint of Power even still.

For the gods to step in while he wrote and give power to his hand could only mean one thing: A quester was on their way. Sighing, Thomas slid off his rickety stool to find another piece of paper to copy the prophecy onto. After nearly an hour of searching, the prophet sighed and headed for the door of his cave, intent of getting some paper for the new prophecy. He had not figured out why it was important that he live in a cave in the middle of the most dangerous mountain range in the kingdom. Yet, Thomas lived in a tiny, smoky cave so hidden in the craggy peaks that even he had problems finding his way to the entrance. Some enterprising prophet in years past had covered the opening of the cave with a wooden door but since the walls were rough and uneven, drafts still whistled in around the edges.

Rain was falling outside. It was the kind of weather that cats and dogs came down in. There had to be a reason the gods disliked Thomas. Mayhap it was because Thomas had to be the most pathetic thing to have entered their domain.

Groaning at his misfortune, Thomas shoved his hands into his armpits and started out into the rain, pausing only long enough to shut the door. A good thirty meters down the mountain was a second cave that was stocked with all the supplies a prophet could need such as paper, quills, and ink. There were also tomes filled to the brims with written prophecies from previous residents.

Icy water stung the scalp of his shaven head and rolled in rivulets under his tunic, making him shiver and his teeth chatter. Thomas’s shoes slipped over the slick rocks and several times he almost slid down the mountain side. More than once, he found himself falling painfully onto his bottom. Picking himself up after a fifth such fall, he rubbed his sore backside. He was going to be bruised the following morning.

The second cave had a door similar to the one on Thomas’s home. Shivering from the cold rain, he pushed open the door and dove gratefully into the darkness within. Several minutes later, he came out again clutching a bulk under his wet tunic. In this sort of storm, the oiled canvas he typically kept his paper wrapped in would not do to keep it dry. He hoped most of the sheets would make it the trip back.

Hunching against the stinging drive of water, Thomas stumbled his way back to the main cave. He hurried as best he could though. Prophecies were not given by the gods with much time before the quester arrived and while Thomas could not imagine someone wanting to be out in such weather, it was to be. The rain falling in his eyes and the slippery slope did nothing to make his journey easier. By the time he had reached his doorstep, every bit of him was drenched and he sported several raw scrapes on his bony elbows and knees.

The prophet stopped just within his home cave and frowned around. The door was flung open to the world beyond and the wind and rain had whipped through his small cave, strewing papers and quills across the floor and wetting the contents of several crates Thomas had stacked near the entryway. The meager fire near the back of the cave had run low into the coals and gave off lesser light than usual. What puzzled him the most was that he could not remember rightly if he had shut the door after himself or not when he had left for his trek.

Nothing for it but to right this wrong. Thomas sighed for what seemed an uncountable number that day. He found that the sheaf of paper was half way soaked but the side that had been against his body was mostly dry. The prophet set the stack on his cot and turned to begin straightening the rest of the room.

It wasn’t until much later, while he was shivering under his woolen blankets, that he remembered that at no time during his hours of cleaning had he seen his most recent prophecy in the mix. By that time, Thomas was willing to leave it lie for another day.

--

One year later…

The second blizzard of the year was howling outside but Thomas had seen the snow dark clouds several hours before their arrival and had prepared this time. He had been to the store cave and back with supplies of foods and papers, even books to keep him occupied in the long hours the storm would keep him locked inside. The fire had been built up and there was a chord of wood stacked neatly just inside the door with several more outside in easy reach. The cave was far from cozy but at least it was enough to keep Thomas’s joints from aching.

This storm would not be a repeat of the last one. He had no wish to relive the horror of shortages of food and wood. There had been many times in the week of that first snow storm that he had not thought to see the next day.

The prophet had already taken his evening meal for the night. The dried jerky had not been what he could have wished for but it would do for the first night. He did not want to deplete his stores as yet. The room had also been straightened since Thomas abhorred working in a sty. Smiling, he reached for the book lying open in front of him. The other prophets would laugh at him to know he spent his free time reading children’s fairy tales but that was the good part of living alone deep in the mountains. It did not take him long to immerse himself in the lore of old and his smile grew more wistful with every turn of the page.

There came a resounding thud and an unfamiliar voice cried out, “Curses!”

Thomas jumped at the sound and looked towards the door of his cave. Sure enough, it was standing wide open, snow fluttering across the stone floor and a dark figure cut against the whiteness outside. The fire was guttering in the cold wind and what little heat the prophet had left in his body was rapidly diminishing. He tucked his robes more securely around his thin body. “Par—Pardon?”

The figure stepped further into the cave. “Your words are curses, false prophet.” Despite the words, the voice behind them was far from an angry one. Instead a slow drawl made the tone almost friendly, as if the man were commenting on the weather or the price of grain at market.

Eyes wide at the accusation, Thomas slipped from his work stool. Every now and then, a knight would decide a prophet was to blame for whatever fate had befallen them. There were stories of hapless prophets being seriously hurt or killed in the subsequent attack. Thomas had never had a quester return in the first place and had no idea what to do. If it was indeed a quester, the prophet did not hold much of a chance of escaping. He was trapped in his cave with a blizzard he very well could not travel through outside.

“I—er—Excuse me?” He almost hit himself for how startled and confused he sounded. Was there not a rule somewhere that said prophets had to be self-assured at all times? He was sure there was.

The figure seemed to realize how much warmer the tiny cave would be if the door were closed and turned to do just that. At least Thomas had a semi-polite killer.

The fire recovered slowly from the lack of wind and Thomas could make out the features of the man who was then coming across the cave towards him. Dark red hair hung wetly into a sun-darkened face and pretty sky blue eyes. He was thin but not in the way the prophet himself was. On the quester, it was more of a rugged leanness than starvation. If there was one thing to be said for questers, it was that they got plenty of food and exercise during their wanderings. It was more than could be said for any prophet as the visionaries were always hidden away in remote places where entire kingdoms tended to forget they existed. People only seemed to remember they were there when there was fate to be had and a quest to follow.

“As I was saying,” the stranger continued amiably once he had crossed the room to where Thomas stood, “your prophecies are cracked. They’re curses and evil ones at that.”

Thomas had tipped his head back to blink dumbly at the quester. Was there something he had missed during training? Some insightful nugget of words that would explain how a prophet was to deal with upset questers? One would think that if valuable prophets had been killed due to a few disappointed knights, the whole circle of prophets would do something about it. At the very least, they should offer defense classes in the event of a prophecy gone awry. Then again, Thomas wasn’t considered to be a valuable prophet. Maybe they did offer classes and the second-rates were excluded. Maybe it was a way to weed out the weak or offer an easier target to the angry mobs. Light forgive him, but he was only twenty-one summers and very far from ready to die.

“I—I am not sure of what y—you speak.” Thomas said, wanting to hit himself again at the stutter.

The man frowned and scratched at the back of his neck. “What? Oh, Shadows take me!” he swore, digging through pockets and pouches with the madness of someone who may have lost their mother’s favored ring. The curses became louder and more colorful the longer he searched. Some of the words that came out of his mouth sounded foreign and quite a few sounded downright impossible. “Ah-ha!” A crumbled bit of paper fell out of an inner pocket of the man’s travel worn tunic.

Thomas kept his silence as he watched the man smooth out the paper with long, callused fingers. He bit his tongue as the man held the scrap out to the prophet and accepted the paper without a sound. The words written on it were his penmanship. Of that, Thomas was sure. But they were not the cramped, yet elegant lines he reserved for prophecies of import.

A walk through hills of yellow and gold

Might gleen a sight of fey of old—

The prophet felt his eyes widen and wanted to slap himself. He wished his repertoire of curses was as large as this man’s because cursing would be useful right about then. As it was, Thomas was resigned to making a faint croaking sound, rolling his eyes up into his head, and fainting dead away.

--

When he awoke, he was surprised to warm and comfortable. He was also surprised to be lying on his back but the fact that he was warm and comfortable seemed more important. Blinking, he was able to recognize the rough ceiling of his cave and when he concentrated, he could hear the storm still raging around the mountain.

“Ah. Awake, I see.”

Thomas nearly died from heart failure at that lazy voice so near his ear. Somehow, he had forgotten the other sharing his cave.

The man shifted into view, bright blue eyes gazing down at him in concern. The corners of the questers lips twisted up into a rueful sort of smile. “I expected anger or indignation, not for you to swoon like a maiden.”

A flush began in the prophet’s cheeks and ears. There were plenty of things that Thomas had done in his life to mark himself an incompetent channel of the gods but this would top the list for the rest of his mortal life. Before, he had never done a thing so stupid within sight of a quester and now it seemed he had messed up royally twice in front of this one. “Men do not swoon.” The prophet muttered, wishing the Light of the gods would swallow him whole. Though, at this point, he had made such a fool of himself that maybe the gods would not take him any longer and the Shadows would claim him instead.

Amusement pulled the stranger’s smile into a crooked grin. “Ah. Then whatever do you call that? It sure looked like a swoon to me. You even did the flutter and sigh bit just as the ladies at court.”

Actually, Thomas was ready to go willingly into the Shadows so long as he was away from this humiliation. The burn in his face began unbearable and he was certain his pasty complexion was tomato red.

The stranger seemed to take pity on him and finally sat back. “It’s no matter. I came to speak of your cursed prophecy, not your weak constitution.”

The fire did not abate from his cheeks as Thomas sat up. The strange quester had moved him to his cot after his fall and had even pulled the woolen blankets up around his shoulders. It was unexpected to see such a mark of kindness in a man who accused a prophet of heresy. Although, was that not what was wanted as an end result of a quester’s principles but for them to be both strong and fair? And this man had already shown a propensity for fairness since he spoke to Thomas as a peer might. Though the words may not have been the sort a prophet would want to hear.

Than again, Thomas having the luck he did should have expected that this would happen sooner or later.

“I apologize.” The words were the barely more than a whisper. How could he have been so stupid? He had always thought that his power with prophecies would wane until they were as accurate as throwing dirt into the wind. This, however, was far beyond that. How could this man have come to have those horrible lines, written as they were in a fit of greed? Had he not lost them over a year ago?

For a long time, there was only the sound of the storm outside and the crack of the fire within. In the reign of such silence, Thomas found it hard to look upon this man he had so sorely wronged. His fingers picked listlessly at balls of fuzz on the blanket. A strong, tanned hand closed over both of his and held them still.

“Apologize?” the voice was incredulous, confused.

Thomas nodded and elaborated, “Yes. I had not meant for those couplets to be read by anyone save myself. That they were mistaken as prophecy…” The man’s hands were warm where his were not and had interesting calluses across the palms and fingers, no doubt the hands of an experienced swordsman and quester.

“Mistaken? They are written as prophecies are.”

He snuck a peek at the man, saw the frown on that golden face, and returned quickly to staring at his entrapped hands. “I wrote them that way, yes.” The admission was slow, reluctant to leave his mouth. The man already thought him weak and would undoubtedly think him a fool too. “They were meant only as a sort of wish list for myself. There is nothing of the Light of the Gods in them.”

A curled knuckle was placed under his chin and Thomas sighed inwardly in resignation when his face was tipped so that the man could meet his gaze. “Then why were they accurate?” The man’s pretty blue eyes were slightly lower than Thomas’s as the man was crouching on the floor beside the cot.

“I—what?!” The prophet gaped at the stranger. “Did you not hear me say I made them up?”

“Ah. I heard. However, every place you wrote into those lines was a real place. The creatures were real creatures.”

Thomas opened and closed his mouth several times, no words coming out. When he could eventually control his voice again, what he said sounded weak. “But you said—you called me a false prophet.”

That sideways grin was back on the stranger’s face. “Nay. I said your prophecies were curses.” The man took back his hands and dangled his arms between his legs, his elbows resting on his knees. “Nay, prophet. You earned your title.”

“Ah…”

“I think both of us have been remiss. My name is Tai.” The man said and gave a funny half-bow, looking more ungainly than respectful.

The prophet stared for several heartbeats before realizing his error. Blushing madly, he scrambled from his cot, narrowly avoiding knocking the quester to the floor. Thomas sank to his knees, crossed his hands over his heart, and leaned forward as was proper. “This humble servant of the gods is called Thomas.”

“Ah.” If at all possible, the man had made his lazy drawl even slower. “Well then, Thomas, you should get up off that floor. I am no god for you to bow so.”

The look in the prophet’s hazel eyes then could have soured milk. “I am no priest, sir. I am a Prophet of the Quests and thereby servant to the questers themselves.” Yet he did drop his hands into his lap again.

Tai’s eyebrows had risen a fair bit at hearing this, giving him a more amused appearance. “Ah. There is your spine. I had wondered where it had gone off to. It is quite unlike your kind to let me push you about as I have. Usually, my ears would have been boxed long before.” His grin was back though to take any sting from his voice that his tone could not cover.

Thomas continued to frown at the outrageous quester. The prophet could safely say he was unlike most of the prophets out in the world but he already knew that was because he was the weakest of them, the least likely to have a prophecy when it did not concern a quester. He had been given this post simply because it was what had most suited his meager talents.

“I seem to have angered you.” Tai ran his fingers through his messy, wet hair. “I apologize. I have been told many a time that I have a rather crass manner. My family, I am sure, had hoped the quest would knock it right out of me.” Grunting softly, the quester came to his feet and stood over Thomas’s kneeling form with his hands fisted on his hips. Thomas managed to quell the urge to scoot backwards out of the man’s reach but could not help but feel the blood drain from his head. No matter the man’s careless attitude, the prophet could not forget that he had come in during a blizzard shouting of curses and fakery.

“You—ah—said you followed the poem?”

“Ah. I followed it to the letter.”

“And there was truth to what I wrote?” However nervous he was of Tai, Thomas could not be anything but interested in what sort of tale the man could recount to him. This was, after all, the first time a quester had returned to his humble cave.

A softer smile came over the handsome features and he took a seat cross-legged in front of the prophet, their knees almost touching. “Ah. Would you like to hear?”

Tai’s proximity made Thomas made his stomach jump nervously but the idea of a story had his pulse racing with anticipation. “Oh, yes, would you?” It was hard to keep the excitement from his voice, for he did not want to seem desperate. “But—ah—first, might you tell me how you came by the prophecy? I neither remember you nor ever gave that paper away.”

White teeth, so bright against sun-darkened skin, flashed quickly in what Thomas was coming to identify as a customary expression for the quester. That grin lopsided came off roguish and added a boyish charm to him. “Well now. I set off over a year ago to quest for treasure; the greatest treasure the Twelve Kingdoms had to offer. Unfortunately, not knowing where this treasure could possibly be held or, really, what it even was, I sought to find first someone who could point me in the right direction.”

“A prophet,” Thomas filled in quietly. That was indeed his job, to point the way for the questers. That the prophecies were riddles usually indecipherable until after the fact did not seem to deter them.

“Ah. So I searched the kingdoms for a prophet. I found many but none could tell me more than to continue on east to where the mountains reach the sky. So, weary of all this searching since I had not started my quest, I wandered east until, finally, I came to these mountains. Rocky and unforgiving they were and yet they seem to kiss the sky. The villages in the foothills spoke of a prophet living in seclusion in a cave hidden away in the mountains and I knew that was where I needed to go.

“I climbed the barren mounts for five full days before a storm took me unawares. It was fierce and I thought it would defeat me.” Tai paused to scrub a hand self-consciously through his hair again. “Well, I lie a bit,” he chucked softly at himself. “The storm did take me. At the time, I lost my footing and slid quite a ways down the mountain side. All would have been well and I would have continued up the mountain but for the fact that I hit my head on a rock. The darkness came and I thought the Shadows would claim me before I could start my quest.”

Thomas made a sympathetic noise. That same storm had nearly claimed him as well.

“I awoke the next morning soaked and sore but whole otherwise. When I made to continue back up the mountain, I found the prophecy resting under my hand. How it had come to be there, I know not and have thought on it many a night.”

“Sounds as if the gods themselves had a hand.” the prophet whispered, in awe. He found it hard to believe that anything but the gods had taken the prophecy to the wounded quester.

“Sounds as if.” Tai agreed with a quick grin. “And a good thing too as I do not think I could have climbed to this cave that day. Or for several following. Your mountain is a dangerous thing for the hale and hearty much less a man dizzy with an aching head. As it was, it was all I could do to make it to the foothills without cracking my skull again.”

Thomas winced and nodded. There had been a few questers who had made it to his door with a broken arm or other ailment. “I see. The prophecy came to you through the Light. You were meant to follow it, though it was only the silly drivel of a prophet and not the gods.”

“Ah. As I said, the words were all true, drivel or no.”

“Tell me of your journeys?”

Tai laughed and pulled the prophet to his feet with a firm hand on his arm. “That I can do. Perhaps it is not such a good idea to relate such tales on the cold ground. And further, I desire a warm cup of cider.”

Stumbling to his feet with the quester, Thomas struggled to dust his thick robes. “I am not familiar with that drink. Is it such like mead?”

The only answer he got to that was a bright laugh.

--

“My true quest, searching for a prophet aside, began nearly a week after I fell down the mountain.”

They both sat on Thomas’s cot, their backs against the rough cave wall, a shared blanket spread over their thighs, and a warmed mug each of cider. As far as Thomas was concerned, this was the most comfortable he had been in many a year. It was probably the most comfort he had had since taking over this lonesome cave. The cider, crisp and sweet with the taste of summer apples, was a treat to a man who had only had water to drink day after day. These mountains were too inhospitable to support a plant that could make even a suitable tea. There had been one time when he had tried to use one of the local weeds to make a tea but he had taken ill after that attempt so he had not tried again.

“First, I passed the golden hills as they were just beyond the foothills of this range. There I met a fey prince who bemoaned that no fair maidens would step within his fairy ring. Honestly, it was a messy thing that hardly resembled a circle at all and so would not work. Seems the neighboring village had heard of his treachery and had kicked out the mushrooms when he was looking elsewhere. I asked him why he would not simply ask for the hand of a maiden from the village. Should she go willingly, she would be more favorable to staying with him under his golden hills. He seemed agreeable towards the idea and approached the village leaders. It took some convincing but when I left, he had agreed to return the maiden after seven years should she object to her stay with him.

“Next, I traveled to a forest between this kingdom and the next. I fell asleep under the boughs of a spindly aspen and when I was roused by the hooting of an owl, I found that all the trees of the forest were bright with some strange light. A great cat stood near my resting place, spitting and fur ruffled. It spoke to me and threatened me as a murderer of its kind. I pleaded with it for hours and came to learn more of the creature. It was a gulan, a magical feline long believed extinct after hunters destroyed its species for their glorious cream colored pelts. I made a promise to it to accompany it and its companions, for there was an entire clan of them in that wood, to an uninhabited forest surrounding a castle in Third Kingdom. No one ventures to that castle any longer since it is feared to be haunted by the spirit of a dead princess. I left it and the others several weeks later where they seemed pleased with their new found privacy.”

Thomas gawked at the quester openly, his drink cooling forgotten in his hands. He’d had no idea of things such as this when he had written those silly verses; only that he could see the world and its wonders.

“I traveled to the Darkind Mountains in eastern Fifth Kingdom. There I found a town at the edge of a glacier lake trembling in fear of an ice-hearted maiden. They said she marked claim to any soul what stepped foot on her glacier. So I trekked onto the glacier. The maiden found me within the candlemark and told me she owned my life. I agreed so long as she told me what caused her such rage. She told of being the spirit of the glacier and sharing her domain peacefully for centuries. By chance, she fell in love with a young man from the town and he had loved her in turn and visited her many a day. The elders of the town had discovered their trysts and told the man to leave the maiden. He refused. The elders killed the young man declaring an enchantment on the youth’s soul to make him love the ice spirit so. In her heartache and anger, the maiden had lashed out against the people and had killed each for stepping onto her kingdom of ice. I asked what she could want to cease her vengeance and she spoke of an end to her loneliness.

“I was allowed to return to the town and pass along her request. The people trembled at first but eventually, a boy of ten came forward and offered to accompany her. The boy’s family had tried to cross the glacier, unknowing of the threat the maiden offered, and had perished. The boy, a mere babe then, had hidden under his kin so that the maiden did not know his existence. The child was no lover for her but he offered a cure for her solitude in his friendship and forgiveness.”

A girl, the daughter of a desert princess of the Sixth Kingdom and the Bog King, who wore the face of a monstrous girl in sunlight and the skin of a monster in moonlight. She wandered the kingdoms in search of her mother’s homeland under the guidance of a kind priest. There, Tai had told her directions to the Kingdom of Sand beyond the Denil River.

He had ventured into the lair of a dragon in Skycap Mount. A group of bandits were making off with its horde of gold and Tai had fought the bandit leader. Both had been wounded but the quester had come out with the respect of the bandits. The leader explained that the dragon had stolen the fortune from the treasury of the Fourth Kingdom. The bandits were the brother-monks in charge of guarding the treasure and had only come to take what was theirs. An agreement had been made between the monks and the dragon that they would guard the gold in his lair. In return, no harm would ever befall them or their order and the dragon would be at their beck and call.

A princess in a cave at the point where the four winds met wept because she could not come near her people without turning them to stone. Tai had given her a kerchief made of the finest silver and bid her to bind her eyes with it. When she did as such, she was able to face him without him so much as stiffening.

Traveling by ship, he came to an island with three women who sang with enchanted voices. They wept and cried of a sorcerer cursing them and chaining them to the rock in the sea. Their curse brought any men to come near them to ruin. Following their directions, the quester had gone to the sorcerer’s keep only to find that the man had died when a curse had backfired upon him. Searching the man’s books, Tai had found the counterspell and took it back to the women. Freed from their magic chains, the women were powerful sorceresses and left the isle on the winds, carrying Tai to his next destination in the desert.

Amid the sand dunes of the Sixth Kingdom, Tai had found the bottle of a djinn. The creature complained of his binding to the bottle by an angry sultan. His last master had forgotten him to the sands. One wish freed the djinn and returned him to the human form he’d had before imprisonment.

Thomas’s eyes were wide throughout the sagas. He sighed with the final story and smiled shyly at his storyteller. “You tell the tales with such skill; you could be a bard. I have never heard such.”

“I know of more tales. Those were just my quest.” The quester’s silent laugh made his sides brush Thomas’s arm and he was surprised to find the man so close. A flush worked over his cheeks at the closeness and warmth between them.

Clearing his throat, the prophet pulled away and sipped at the cider. It had grown cold and Thomas was displeased to note that cold cider did not taste as pleasant as warm cider. He winced at the too-sweet flavor. “What namesake were you given?”

Tai hadn’t seemed to notice the movement. “Ah. Somewhere during the adventure with the dragon and the bandit-monks, I was nicknamed ‘Peacemaker.’ It was fitting considering the last part of that prophecy.”

“Oh,” Thomas moaned, wanting to slap his forehead again. The quester gave him a startled look and the prophet sighed and explained. “Not all of that writing was my fanciful ways. The last four lines were true prophecy, as written by the gods through my hands.”

Those expressive blue eyes smiled down at him, understanding in their pale depths. “Ah, I know. When the last lines did not seem to fit the rest—by handwriting, rhythm, or contents—I took them to another prophet. The old man told me that it was a separate prophecy, meant specifically for me. I did not understand that then. Were not prophecies written with the quester in mind? Yet, I see why he would say that now; I think if even a farmer’s lad had followed your rhymes, they would have seen the same things. I do not know if they would have done the same things, however. Different people, different ways, I suppose.”

Tai turned his head and stared at the wall opposite him, his voice becoming low, “The crown of fire goes where it may / Seeking peace that men long ago stole / To the beginning where all paths lay / The crown may find a piece of its soul. The first made some sense to me. I had already been all over the kingdoms and I had seen peace restored in many places.

“The second half, however, eluded me. At first, I thought I was to return where I started, to my own kingdom. That unveiled nothing to me and I could not understand what I was meant to do. So I took my prophecy yet again to a prophet. This one told me to return to the beginning of my quest. Still I did not understand for several more weeks that the beginning of my quest had been where I’d received the prophecy.”

Thomas did not understand the hands that took his cup and set it out of reach. Yet he did not struggle as those hands dragged him around to face the quester. Looking up at those blue eyes, he was filled with warmth. “I thought crown of fire meant your hair since it is so red. It does not mean that though, does it?”

“Nay.” Tai grinned, gaze intent on the hazel eyes watching him.

“It is your title, is it not?”

“Ah.” Those tanned hands settled on Thomas’s shoulders, a heavy warmth through the cloth of his robe.

“You are the Fire Prince of the Twelfth Kingdom.” The nation of fierce warriors entrenched along the Shadow Badlands. Some declared the inhabitants of that kingdom part demon themselves and cursed by the Shadows while others considered them chosen by the Light to protect the rest of the kingdoms.

“Ah. I am Crowned Prince Tailer Ashelon Peacemaker.”

“And did you find your treasure, Highness?” The words were barely a whisper from Thomas’s lips. They were almost swallowed under the force of his beating heart.

Blue eyes laughed down at the prophet as he leaned closer to catch the words. “I did indeed, prophet.”

“Tell me. Why do all paths lead to here? There are no paths but one in these mountains.”

“It is not a physical path the prophecy speaks of, nor is it this place.” Hot breath that smelled of apples and cinnamon brushed over the prophet’s flushed skin. Sweet but not the too-sweet of the chilled cider.

“No?”

“It speaks of a person, prophet. It is a person so great that paths of the future of the Twelve Kingdoms will start with him. He is so close to the gods that the future can only be entrusted into his hands.” Thomas shuddered at the power behind the words. It was as if the gods spoke through this man, right into their prophet’s soul.

“You, Highness?”

Tai’s body shook with its silent laugh. “Nay, Thomas. You.” A kiss was pressed to Thomas’s forehead, where the three petaled mark of a Prophet of Light lay. Hazel eyes disappeared behind fluttering lashes. “You who are able to write a verse without the aid of the gods and make it true. Granted, you did not know what you did but the result was the same.” A kiss fell on his right eye. “You who name a Prince of Warriors the Peacemaker, even though you did not know who I was.” A kiss touched his left eye. “You who complete this prince’s soul.”

Thomas jerked back in surprise, eyes wide open again.

The Fire Prince flashed his lopsided grin. “I felt it as soon as I entered your cave. I may have been angry at having been sent all over the kingdoms to complete the accursed quest you gave me, but I could not stay that way in your presence. You are the piece I was missing that your prophecy sent me to find. You are the treasure I sought.”

Unable to find a suitable reply, the prophet reached up and touched Tai’s tanned cheek. The prince took the gesture as an invitation and leaned down further to brush his lips against Thomas’s. They were soft, sweet. The prophet slid his free hand behind Tai’s neck and tugged him away, yet not more than a breath's distance.

“Does that mean I can leave my cave now?”

Tai’s answer was to close the slight distance and kissed those smiling lips.