Man of Truth

Long ago the Divinity

Bestowed on man these gifts of three.

The first lay hid in cold depths still;

The gift of blessing from his will.

Next a journey to the sun

To claim the gift of things undone.

Last the peak of eternal youth,

As spoken by the Man of Truth.

As men no more did they ascend;

As gods they fought their final end.

With blackened hearts, they fell in time,

Souls never reaching the Divine.

The light of the silvertree flooded into her.

High Priestess Glynda held her hands, strong and steady. Through the tree, Valerie sensed the forest that connected all of Maskamere: thousands of silvertrees, alive and shining and splendid. She’d done it. She had restored them.

Then Glynda dropped her hands and stepped away, her kindly face wrinkling into a frown. Valerie blinked. She turned away from the silvertree’s light and to the crowd before them: the villagers who had come to witness her blessing. Everyone in Drymuir was alive. She had saved them too.

The invasion was going to happen tonight.

She picked out smiling faces: her mother, her cousins, her aunts and uncles, relief and dread sweeping through her in equal measure. This had been the most joyful moment of her life.

“Valerie.” Glynda’s voice quavered. “Your power, it’s…”

The High Priestess wasn’t supposed to say that. Valerie remembered every detail of this night; she had relived every moment over and over again since receiving the goldentree’s power, and it had always started the same way. Glynda had declared her blessed and welcomed Valerie to take her place as a priestess of the convent of St. Maia.

But already something had changed. That something was Valerie herself, no longer the acolyte blessed by one silvertree, but a sorcerer with power equal to the queen.

“I know,” she said quickly. “High Priestess, the queen reached out to me. She blessed me too.”

Glynda’s frown deepened. “The queen?”

The air shifted. Unrest stirred through the crowd, those who had witnessed a blessing before knowing that it wasn’t supposed to go like this. Glynda’s wasn’t the only furrowed brow.

Valerie took her chance. She stepped out of the light of the silvertree, finding a spot on the lawn from where she could address the villagers, and projected her voice.

“Everyone, listen to me! I know this is unusual, but I saw something in the silvertree. It gave me a vision from the queen. A warning.” She took a breath. “The Drakonians are going to invade Maskamere tonight.”

The consternation on the faces of the villagers turned to fear. Many of them looked to High Priestess Glynda, their leader, but she seemed too stunned to speak.

“Val?” Her mother pushed through the crowd. “High Priestess? Did you see something too?”

Glynda shook her head.

Mum.

Valerie trembled. For a moment, she felt light-headed. Without thinking, her feet took her straight to her mother, Kira, grabbing her arm, feeling the warmth of her skin—real, solid, no longer a dream. How many times had she seen her mother dying, screaming, pleading for her daughter’s life? All the memories that had tormented her, of past lives she couldn’t change, suffering she couldn’t avoid.

Not this time.

“We have to go before it’s too late!” She clung to her mother, ignoring Kira’s startled reaction. “They’re probably already at the border, and they’re marching this way right now. We have to get away. If we don’t run, they’ll kill us all!”

She sounded mad, she knew that. It was hard to believe that anything bad could happen on this beautiful, peaceful night with the crescent moon shining down on the silvertree, the air cool and still, the grass soft. The convent itself was quiet, its gate shut. All the priestesses and acolytes that dwelt within these walls were gathered here on the lawn along with the villagers to take part in this ritual.

She remembered the fire. She remembered the silvertree burning. The ash in her mouth.

Valerie hoped that Avon would put a stop to it, but in the meantime they had to get away.

“Glynda?” Her mother squeezed Valerie’s hand. “You heard her. What do we do?”

They believed her. Not just her mother—she saw it in the crowd too. Perhaps the desperation in her voice had convinced them; people looked shocked, but not suspicious.

High Priestess Glynda raised her hands. “Peace. Everyone, stay calm. If the enemy has crossed the border, our queen will know. It’s our duty to make a stand. Those who cannot defend themselves, stay in the convent. Those who can, return to the village and arm yourselves. Who has the fastest horse?”

Her cousin Aster stepped forward. “I do.”

“Send a message to the border patrol. Come back as soon as you’ve raised the alarm.”

“No—”

Valerie hurried to her cousin before he turned away. She hadn’t even reunited with the rest of her family yet—here they were like living ghosts around her, a strange, surreal feeling knotting her stomach—and already Aster was about to ride into danger. He had been one of the first to be killed.

“You’ll die,” she said, pressing her fingers into the soft fabric of his sleeves. “You need to run. Please.”

Aster gave her a funny look. She’d almost forgotten his face, the way his brow crinkled when she said something that amused him, the kindness in his eyes. As a child, he’d always indulged her, no matter how silly her whims. Now he was grown into a fierce protector of the realm, and his courage was going to kill him yet again.

“I’ll come back,” he said. “Promise.”

He curled his little finger around hers in a pinky swear, smiling, but Valerie shook her head. “You won’t. I know you won’t.”

“Val.”

Her mother touched her arm, glancing between them. Valerie resisted the urge to scream. You’re all going to die! Listen to me!

“What did you see?” Her mother’s dark eyes gazed at her, identical to her own.

Meanwhile, High Priestess Glynda was directing a flurry of activity around them. The priestesses and acolytes retreated into the convent along with the villagers who couldn’t fight. The able-bodied men of Drymuir gathered their horses and marched out of the gate to defend the village. Her family crowded around her: her grandmother, Luciana, and various aunts, uncles and cousins all pestering her with questions.

“Val, what’s going on?”

“Come on, now, let Aster go. What’s the hold up?”

“Is the queen coming to help us?”

“Are we all going to die?”

That last plaintive question came from Lukas, Aster’s thirteen-year old brother, whose death she had witnessed more times than she cared to repeat. Fear and panic swirled around them. Valerie tried to hold it at bay. Things would be different this time, she reminded herself. Avon would stop the attack, at least temporarily.

“No one has to die.” She ruffled Lukas’s hair. “That’s why the queen warned us, to give us time to save ourselves. Aster, if you go out there alone, you won’t come back. I’ll go with you.”

Everyone objected at once.

“No, you won’t.” Her mother was first to lay down the law.

“We need you here,” Luciana agreed.

“Look, I’ll be careful.” Aster squeezed her shoulder. “Tell me what I need to avoid and I’ll avoid it. No sense putting us both in danger, right?”

“It doesn’t work like that.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she sensed High Priestess Glynda approaching. No doubt the High Priestess had many questions. She would not be allowed to leave so easily.

Letting go of Aster, Valerie pushed her way past her relatives, eyes fixed on the gate. She ignored their protests, her mother chasing after her, Glynda calling her name…

Then the world changed.

There was no transition, no sense of movement or a journey from one place to another. One moment she was in the convent, then…

Bright light assaulted her eyes. Her knees smacked into something hard and wooden, and she yelped, disoriented. Her hands found the edge of a counter as she regained her balance. Slowly, the world began to make sense again, Valerie taking in the sight immediately in front of her.

She was looking out of a window into a field grazed by sheep. Lambs frolicked in the grass. A pale noon sun shone down from a periwinkle sky; the occasional cloud scudded by.

Inside, a collection of succulents in terracotta plant pots dotted the windowsill. Her hands rested in front of a porcelain basin filled with soapy water. An iron stove jutted out to her left, while to her right wooden steps descended into the cool larder where salted meat, vegetables and fresh milk were kept unspoiled. Behind her, she knew, lounge seats circled a brightly patterned mosaic depicting a crescent moon and stars.

This was the Crescent family kitchen.

She was home.