22. Prophet
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Prophet
In the time I had aided Al, I had learned every single step to reaching his cellar. I’d also learned how to dissect a body. And luckily, I had stopped vomiting after the first eve.
“Hold this,” he said, stretching out the end of the intestine.
I gingerly took it in my gloved hands, pulling it as he had so it stretched outward. Fortunately, he ran a cloth over the slick mucus and juices that coated every organ.
I had learned many things I rather wished I had not.
The current subject was male. Death by some mysterious illness Al was attempting to figure out the origin of.
Al leaned close enough that if he stuck his tongue out, he would be able to touch the splayed edge of flesh folded outward from meticulous slices.
He slid a syringe into the kidney, and with a finger on the same hand, he drew dark green liquid into the tube.
After seeing my share of organs, I could tell this one was inflamed, thick, and an odd color which pointed to rot.
Al withdrew the needle from the side, and as soon as it exited, the entire organ exploded. Al’s frame blocked me, taking the damage. The wet slap of whatever goo it was hit his lab coat.
“Saints!” he sputtered. I hurried to grab onto the middle of the small intestine he was holding before it ran off the side of the corpse.
When Al turned, I saw the goo had spattered across his entire face.
“Saints, Amara, it’s begun to burn. I have to go bathe.” He began to back away toward the exit. “Cover the body!”
His steps thundered up the staircase. Then silence.
My heart leaped. I was alone.
Another sennight had passed in this routine, and only now was I alone.
There was no time to waste.
Drawing closer to the corpse, I collected the thick intestines, settling them on the stomach. They slid into the open cavern of the torso. I reached for the thick wool folded over his private area and tossed it over the rest of him.
As I strode to the far edge of the chamber where the bookshelves were, I removed my gloves, tossing them on one of the worktables.
I kept finding myself near this area, as though a tug in my chest drew me here.
I’d been desperate to investigate, especially since hearing the scratching a few dawnlight rotations ago.
What was interesting about it was that it only happened when I was near this wall and Al was on the other side of the chamber doing one concoction or another.
Just like the trial potion I had been given. The man was a visionary, if a little mad.
“Hello?” I whispered.
Again came the scritch scritch.
It retreated, and I followed the sound until I was crouched near the end shelf corner, running my hands over the planes to the side of the final shelf.
My finger fell into a dip, a notch different to the rest of the board, and I pressed. Something clicked followed by a hiss. A hidden door.
The shelf shuddered, and it took a few nudges for it to swing inward until it creaked to a stop. I did not have time to weigh the decision, so I slipped inside.
Nothing was even close to what I had anticipated.
An enclosure built of see-through material was near the wall where I always heard the noise.
Inside was a woman, hair disheveled and tangled about her face.
She wore a basic gown a lady may wear to a stroll around town spread around her as she crouched, her arm stuck through one of the various holes along that side of the case.
Her elbow stopped her from being able to reach further.
Now I knew how I had been hearing the scratches.
The girl continued to just stare at me as she withdrew her arm from the hole.
“Hurry, we only have but a moment.”
The woman’s mouth had not moved. I whirled to find a second cell, glass-paned, flush against the stone wall.
She waved me toward her, the lines bracketing her mouth and the corners of her eyes deepening.
Her face mirrored that of the woman scratching the wall—the one still glaring at me—but fifty annums older.
That wasn’t the most striking thing about her; it was the milky sheen covering her pupil and iris. A chill traveled down my spine, and I slowed my approach.
“Closer, Harbinger,” she intoned.
My stomach sank at how easily she said it.
Her attention on me was unmistakable. Of all the names I had heard directed at me, ‘harbinger’ rattled me most. It took several paces to reach the front of her enclosure.
A Sigil so like mine covered the whole of her ivory skin, but its lines were a faint strawberry shade instead of inky black. She seemed ethereal . . .
And she was trapped.
The latch only needed to be undone to free her.
“Now is not the time for freedom.”
My gaze flew up to hers, shocked. “Can you read my thoughts?” I breathed.
“No,” she chuckled, “but I know many things.”
“This is what we have to deal with,” the girl from the other side snarled. “We may as well hang ourselves.”
I ignored her spite. After all, I would surely be in a sour mood were I her. The signature Al mess spread across the chamber. Books littered the area, scattered throughout, and parchment lined one side of the wall, scribbles along it. I recognized some of the symbols as closely resembling Larien.
“Be kind, Lucinda.” She turned her milky gaze to me.
“I understand your confusion, Amara.” My shoulders straightened as my name rolled off her tongue.
“Listen closely, for we all have roles to play. I am the last prophet.” She paused at my sharp gasp.
The woman I had seen in the Grand Hall . . . no this was not the same woman.
“I have been in this cage since before your birth, and I’ve seen your path forth.” Her tone took on a breathlessness that raised the hair on my arms. “You are the Harbinger. Much will be unveiled, and much will shift as rot, famine, and death crawl across all the realms.”
I could only blink at the prophet. Nothing inside me doubted she spoke the truth.
“Let me lay it out for you directly, Amara. The entire system is a lie. Your presence here has triggered the cogs to start moving,” Lucinda added, her bitterly spoken words echoing within her glass cage.
“What you need.” The prophet’s gaze moved. “It is there.” I turned to find a thick book atop a metal table. The Articles of Prophecy? Incredulity turned to hope.
That pull. That was the source.
Parchment littered the table, but I was already moving.
A single pace and I would touch it.
“Do not.”
I stopped with my arm outstretched toward the grimoire the length of my forearm.
It lay opened to the first page and scrawled across in Larien were the words: Lore of Old.
Lore . . . this had to be what the Resistance needed that contained foundational truths about the realm.
The prophet confirmed it was what I needed.
The text the Resistance had called The Articles of Prophecy was actually the Lore of Old and it was real.
My hand trembled, making the page shake.
“If you take it now, you will be caught, and you will spend the rest of your living dawnlight rotations in that Hollow infested pit,” the prophet murmured.
I yanked my hand back.
“I need it—”
“For the redblood Resistance, yes,” she said, sounding amused. “I kept the title of the text secret, because I ensured it would draw only you to it. The one with the Sigil.”
I touched the mark that had helped me find it. What I sought was so terribly close. Sighing, I strode back before her.
“You must come for the grimoire on the eve of the ball. While everyone is busy with their distractions, you will have a chance to come here again. You must not hesitate.”
“A ball? There has not been talk of a ball.”
“That eve you will take the opportunity when it is presented. When your Warlord is busy tending to politics.”
“What does that mean?” I pressed my hand to the see-through surface. It was cold to the touch. I could see how thick it was too, another reason her voice was muffled.
Her eyes went blank. “You must go. The alchemist returns.”
My pulse had become erratic, causing my lungs to pinch with each inhale and exhale. I stumbled back. If I were caught here—it didn’t bear thinking.
“I will tell you one thing before you leave. That Sigil? It is nothing but a curse. A council ordained one. The only positive of that curse is not only that it allows you to read it, it has also drawn you to Larien texts.” Her white eyes widened. “Go. Now.”
I reeled as I rushed out of the hidden chamber, swinging the bookcase shut until it clicked.
The Sigil was a curse?
My breathing puffed out in harsh explosions. I have to calm myself down. I continued to chant it to myself as I hurried to the table where my cleaning apron waited as well as the thick gloves I had tossed.
Quickly donning the apron and tying it, I then pulled the gloves on to begin wiping the spatter of gore around the covered corpse.
“Saints, that has not happened in much too long,” Al crowed as he descended into the chamber no longer covered in goop. “I could not have that acid on my skin when I know not what it is.” He tsked. “Ah, young Amara, you have not finished the cleaning.”
I paused scrubbing the table where much of the rancid liquid had landed.
“I apologize, my lord,” I curtsied, peering at him from under my eyelashes for any indication he knew I had found his secrets behind the shelves.
“Posh.” He waved his hand with a grumble. “I will begin testing on that goop while you finish.”
“Yes, my lord.” I ducked my head, exhaling slowly as I swiped the final spot on the table, reeling.
How exactly had the council had a hand in cursing me with the Sigil?