Page 88 of Born of Starlight
I regretted snapping at her the moment I’d done it, but there was so little time. I had sent messages by hawk to the rulers of the East, West and South Corridors earlier that day. If my father’s timeline was accurate, the attack on Luz would begin in one week. Barely enough time to reinforce our troops.
Asterie only lifted a brow and whispered something in one of the forgotten languages. The sconces along the crypt stairs lit, and we descended. In the underbelly of the palace sat a long stone-walled chamber with ornate marble columns reaching up to support a domed ceiling. Intricate silver-edged paintings of acorns decorated each column. A noble resting place for my royal ancestors—stone coffins were lined up between the center columns.
“My father lies here.” The words slipped out with little emotion.
My father had been many things—a respected king, an expert negotiator, an experienced swordsman. And, unbeknownst to Asterie’s beloved Sisterhood, a very talented Oracle.
He was also an insufferable prick that I’d spent years of my life trying to impress and showing the utmost loyalty to.So quickly the tides of love for a parent can turn to resentment.
Yet here I was, doing his bidding even in his afterlife.
“I am sorry for your loss.”
I only hummed acknowledgment at the enchantress’ words.
“He had his theories. About you, about the Sisterhood and a great deal of other things. Some since have come true…”
Asterie spun, looking at the marred stone walls of the crypt. Her plum-colored dress caught cobwebs as she swung around. Almost every inch of the crypt walls bore haphazard words carved into the stone. The scratched penmanship looked hurried and was barely legible.
I’d spent months after his death cataloging every word. He’d left strict orders that no one but I should enter the crypts when he died. I had broken that dying wish by allowing Emmerick down here with me to set my father’s ashes in the last coffin in the row.
My father’s prophecies had been unraveling since the last black moon. Just as he said they would.
“He was an Oracle.” Asterie’s words were flat as she drew closer to the crypt walls and ran her hands along the etchings.
I nodded.
“These are prophecies,” the enchantress mused.
I sighed.Finally, she was catching up.
“I didn’t realize what he was until toward the end. He died six months ago. Before he died, he was constantly journaling, constantly visiting these crypts. At first, I thought he was making peace with my mother. Writing letters, making amends.”
No, why would he tell me he too was afflicted with magic of the mind?Instead, my father reveled in making me feel weak for it.
He was so good at mentally shutting me out—but too weak toward the end.
“Are you also—”
I dismissed the budding question. “No, the gift was his alone. He did not pass it to me.” She needn’t know that I was cursed with somethingfarmore taxing. “It’s a timeline—it wraps around the whole crypt. Beginning here.” I stepped over to show her where the prophecies began. The writing was more neatly etched, a closer reflection of my father’s once immaculate handwriting.
On the first black moon after your twenty-sixth year, a star-saved enchantress will request an audience with you…
A warlock of great importance lives in the north woods. Bring them together. They are one.
I’d found maps of where my father suspected the warlock to be in his study.
When Mattock no longer breathes, an attack will come to Luz in seven moons…
I’d received word by hawk this morning that Mattock had succumbed to his illness. The last time I sat in a meeting with the once-powerful Sun King of the North, it was clear his thoughts were scrambled. No longer his own.
The golden sorceress of the North will take the crown. She will come to Luz to capture whatever power she has claim over. She seeks power but not for herself…
“Firose. She will come to claim me,” Asterie mused. “She cannot have my power…or Fenris’ power. Either of us in her hands would be dangerous.”
As death had closed its grip on my father, the prophecies got less logical, less instructional. More riddle than sense. He’d likely only had weeks to etch these words somewhere they could not be burned or misplaced before he was bedridden.
The Wastelands will be known to you…
