Chapter XII. Domenic #2
“To be Chosen by Valmordion is a great honor,” Sharpe began coolly, “and the five of us would like to offer you our sincerest congratulations.”
The first time Domenic had met Sharpe was in his hospital room after the Syarthis Disaster, when the Council had offered him their sincerest apologies.
As Sharpe claimed his seat, the others took those flanking him on either side—Iseul and Peak on his left, Glynn and Hanna on his right.
Domenic shakily lowered into the one at the opposite end.
The heat waves of Valmordion radiating on the table between them distorted their faces into dreamlike blurs, and in the room’s corner, an enchanted typewriter clacked like gnashing teeth.
“However, this honor comes with great responsibility,” Sharpe continued.
“The cataclysms our nation has faced throughout its history have been tremendous. One hundred and fourteen years ago, Alice Rhodes single-handedly quelled a winterscurge that would’ve razed half the eastern coast. Before her, Sewall Heard defended against a ghast invasion that would’ve claimed thousand of Aldrish lives, and Odierne Artell had Collinsmere evacuated while she burned through the last of Winter’s power—and burned the city along with it. ”
Domenic glanced fearfully at the frost that crept like skeletal fingers across the lancet windows.
“I … I understand,” he managed.
“Do you?” Sharpe demanded. “Because, Chosen or not, it would be a betrayal of our duty not to impress upon you how serious of a task you have been assigned. Between your student records, your panicked run from the vigil—”
“I get it. You think I’m not taking this seriously? What do you think has had me bent over a…” At Iseul’s warning look, he cleared his throat. “I mean, I do understand. I promise. The last thing I want is to fail all of Alderland.”
Sharpe tapped his cigarette over the ashtray. “Then let’s cut right to the heart of the matter. Mayes, if you would.”
Domenic had nearly forgotten about Hanna’s book. She opened it, and with a wave of Syarthis, a golden leaf peeled off from where it had been pressed into its yellowed pages, and it fluttered across the table to Domenic. He squinted at the strange writing webbed through the leaf’s veins.
as Summer wilts and Winter lays its siege
and prophecies of yore come to an end
an ancient peace denied must be restored
or see the land destroyed forevermore
Domenic burned under the heat of every eye in the room, including Syarthis’s. “This is it, isn’t it? The prophecy?”
“Yes. The words of the prophecy appeared on the night Valmordion first began to thaw. We’ve been safeguarding it in the times since.” Sharpe waved impatiently. “Well, what do you make of it?”
Domenic scanned it again, and again, and again. The Councilors leaned forward, so silent Domenic wasn’t even sure they were breathing. He felt as if he’d been summoned to speak in the front of the class only to discover he was ass naked.
“Given Winter’s conquest of the North,” Hanna said, “we can presume that—”
“You are a junior member of the Council, Mayes. You will not speak unless addressed,” Sharpe snapped, and Hanna recoiled, pressing into the back of her chair.
“As you know, the Aldrish people believe that the destiny of Valmordion’s Chosen begins even before their bonding.
During her academy years, Alice Rhodes warned her classmates over and over that a new cataclysm was coming.
And when they asked her why, she responded …
Mayes, now is your chance to be a know-it-all. ”
A muscle in Hanna’s jaw clenched. “She said, ‘Because I was born.’”
Domenic stared at Hanna desperately, wondering if she, too, was wrestling down a deranged urge to laugh. Who knew his years of disruptive behavior had been inherited from such an illustrious legacy?
Hanna didn’t look at him.
“Even before Valmordion thawed,” Sharpe said, “the Council has been expecting a Chosen One for five years—ever since Winter began claiming territory. Such a conquest is unprecedented, even during past cataclysms. And given our lack of success reclaiming it, we assumed the task of reunifying our country would fall to a coming Chosen One. Apparently, to you.”
Domenic nodded and wiped his sweaty hands on his trousers.
He pored over the words of the prophecy until they blurred in and out of focus.
He tried tracing his finger across the leaf only for it to crinkle, delicate as spider silk, and he wrenched back.
“So, um, given Winter’s conquest of the fallen territory …
that’s the laying siege bit, right? Makes sense that Winter wants more.
Winter’s probably gunning for all of Alderland.
” He rubbed at the chills prickling up his arms. “And this line about the prophecies. What does it mean, that they’ll end? ”
For some reason, it was the wrong question to ask. Iseul and Peak exchanged a look Domenic couldn’t name. Glynn fiddled with his Order insignia pin.
Sharpe gritted his teeth and gestured at Hanna to answer.
“Beneath the Citadel’s alban tree, its roots form a cavern,” Hanna explained. “Every prophecy we’ve ever received bloomed from them at Valmordion’s making.”
“You mean the Order has always had all the prophecies?” Domenic asked.
“We’ve had the leaves, but the words of the prophecy only appear as Valmordion thaws and another cataclysm looms. But what’s important, Dom … this leaf, it’s the last of all of them.”
Domenic grappled with the magnitude of that statement.
Despite Alderland’s reverence for Chosen Ones, the Order glossed over the details of the past prophecies in school.
Maybe he simply hadn’t paid attention—the cataclysms had always felt like ancient history to him.
But he didn’t think it was his fault he was clueless.
No, the truth was, for a millennium, the Council had known exactly how many cataclysms were coming.
And every time Valmordion thawed, they’d counted them passing, telling no one, until only this final prophecy remained. Again, he read the last line.
or see the land destroyed forevermore
So that was why this prophecy was the grand finale. If he failed, the cataclysm wouldn’t merely wound Alderland—it would destroy it.
Domenic stabbed his nails into his kneecaps.
Wake up, he begged himself. Wake up.
When he didn’t, he stammered, “S-so I’m supposed to … I’m supposed to restore an ancient peace? How? By reclaiming the fallen territory, like you said?”
“Well, this isn’t the entirety of the prophecy.
These are only the first lines.” Hanna spoke tentatively, as if prompting him.
Right—this Domenic did know from school.
The prophecies functioned as instructions.
The original piece led the Chosen One to another, then another.
Until either the Chosen One prevented the cataclysm before it began, or thwarted it just as it unfolded.
Domenic forced in air, trying vainly to calm himself. “How many pieces do I have to find in total?”
“Past Chosen Ones received between six and eight additional pieces, excluding the original prophecy,” she answered.
“The prophecy pieces each require a task to fulfill them. Sometimes how that task relates to thwarting the cataclysm is clear; other times, it’s mysterious in the moment but makes sense in hindsight.
Regardless, it’s always the final piece that’s the hardest, that requires the greatest power to fulfill.
And we’ll know for sure when you receive that final piece, as it’ll have four lines like the original prophecy, whereas each piece in between has two. ”
“All right,” Domenic said, struggling to absorb it all. “But how am I supposed to get more pieces if there aren’t any leaves left?”
At once, he knew he’d spoken wrong again, because Hanna and Iseul cringed, Sharpe coughed out smoke, and that same expression flitted across every other Councilor’s face.
Fear.
“What?” he asked. “What is it?”
“I knew it. All the questions you’ve been asking—you haven’t heard it, have you?” Glynn gasped. “Destiny always speaks the next piece of the prophecy to its Chosen when they bond with Valmordion.”
“Oh?” His whole body trembled. “And what if—what if I didn’t get that memo?”
The silence echoed. Domenic wouldn’t even mind bursting into flame right then. He would’ve welcomed it.
Peak chuckled, but it sounded forced. “There’s some sort of explanation then, I’m sure.”
“Yes, I’m sure there is,” Sharpe said, pounding his cigarette into the ashtray. “We’re all fucked.”
Iseul blanched. “Sir, that isn’t—”
“No. You and Mayes are too biased, and you swore before we came in here that you wouldn’t meddle.
The two of you, coddling him, fighting his battles for him.
It’s pathetic.” His chair screeched as he stood.
“Valmordion may have bonded with this … this boy, but just because his destiny is to save us doesn’t mean he’ll succeed!
I mean, him, the champion of Summer? Where do you see Summer’s fire?
Its strength? Its fervor? The only reason he wasn’t expelled years ago was because according to the Prime Minister, the Order—who provides every service to this country, whose magicians give their lives each year fighting Winter—we apparently can’t afford to look heartless.
As if the Syarthis Disaster was our own doing!
No. We each have a destiny to lead this country, and I refuse to lead it into ruin! ”
Domenic lurched to his feet and paced in front of the fireplace. Furious, mortified tears spilled down his cheeks.
“I-I get it. You think I want that wand? You think I want every life in Alderland on my shoulders? I don’t even believe in destiny.
Just because you hand me mysterious instructions on some leaf doesn’t mean I buy that I’ve actually been Chosen from the day I was born.
Because if my whole life has led up to Valmordion, what the hell does that make what happened to me?
What happened to both of us? Our classmates?
” He jerked his head at Hanna. “I refuse to believe that every event I’ve lived through has been … been…” He couldn’t find the words.
“By design,” Hanna spat, and nodded in agreement.
“Right. Exactly. So I’m sorry I’m not your perfect Chosen One. Or, what was the better word you called me earlier—a disgrace?” He grinned at Sharpe maliciously. “Yeah, I heard you all arguing. But guess what? I wouldn’t have Chosen me either.”
The other Councilors seemed to have forgotten how to close their mouths. Hanna fiddled with something in her lap.
Sharpe fumed, more furious than ever.
Domenic resumed pacing. “What about Ellery Caldwell?”
“What about her?” Glynn asked warily.
“Well, she’s a part of this. She made a Living Wand. An alban wand. Seems to me you do have your perfect Chosen One, right there.”
Sharpe cocked a brow, as if amused he finally agreed with him. Then he barked, “Mayes, it’s decided. Go to her.”
Domenic hastily smeared his cheeks on his sleeve and smoothed down his rumpled hair. “You’re bringing her here?”
“No. Or at least, not until she provides answers about her wand that finally make a shred of sense.”
Domenic startled. Caldwell’s wand might’ve been unprecedented, its appearance strange, but Caldwell was the Order’s darling. And they were describing her like a criminal.
Hanna rose grimly. Her fingers flexed over Syarthis, and its tip curled around the crook of her thumb.
“Sir, I feel adamantly that this step is unnecessary,” Glynn said. “Caldwell has proven herself to be nothing but loyal. Is this really how we wish to reward—”
“Now is not the time to test me,” Sharpe snapped.
“Wait. You’re going to invade her memories?” Domenic balked. “But you can’t. That’s not fair. She didn’t do anything wrong.”
“So Syarthis will judge, I’m sure,” Sharpe said flatly.
“What if I spoke to her? Maybe I—”
“Barrow, you’ve spoken quite enough.”
“But—”
“Dom, don’t,” Hanna said, her voice oddly strained. “I’ll be back soon.”
She left.
Domenic clenched and unclenched his fists, hating himself. All he’d been thinking was that maybe, just maybe, Caldwell could save him. She had an alban wand, after all. No doubt she’d make a better Chosen One than he did.
Instead, he’d condemned her.
Fuckup, he told himself.
“What if destiny is just taking its time?” he asked frantically.
“A minute ago you were throwing a tantrum about how you don’t believe in destiny,” Sharpe muttered.
“Yeah, well, this Chosen One thing is new to me. If destiny needs to tell me another piece of the prophecy, maybe—I don’t know. Maybe I just need to give it another chance to try.”
Truthfully, he had no idea what he was saying. But once upon a time, Domenic had sensed greatness within himself. Maybe Valmordion had, too. Maybe it was still there, had always been there, and he really was capable of this.
As Domenic grasped the handle, every color in the room brightened, dizzyingly vibrant. The wand’s heat seared through his gauze, as though he gripped an iron over an open flame. Yet he forced himself not to let go.
And he waited.
And waited.
And waited.
Finally, when he could no longer stand it, he dropped the greatest wand in history onto the table with a clatter. Fresh blood bloomed through his bandages.
Sharpe’s lips curled. “If you are all that stands between Alderland and the end of its days, then we are all damned.”
Domenic didn’t—couldn’t—defend himself. Instead, he lunged toward the trash can, falling onto his hands and knees. He vomited. He missed.