The Oracle’s Flame

Excerpt

The Oracle’s Flame
Mell Eight © 2022
All Rights Reserved

Prologue

The castle wasn’t burning, although her mind’s eye saw it outlined in flames. There would be fire, but not this night. No, this night was death. This night was treason.

These events had already occurred. They were sent from the past, meant to ensure her understanding of the present, and to help her decipher the future. They were important, so the Oracle watched them again.

Ferim was scowling over his brother’s body. His older half brother, the king, was dead. The specter of his mother, the long-dead second wife of the previous king, hung over Ferim’s head as he declared himself King of Altnoia. The spite in his mother’s heart had successfully lived on, given new birth at the end of Ferim’s bloody sword. The king was dead. The king’s wife was dead. The king’s oldest son was dead. Ferim’s mother placed a heavy crown on Ferim’s head and then began to let out a crazed laugh.

The second son of the dead king escaped the castle, a circle of loyal servants and guards ensuring that Prince Edan, the rightful heir to the throne, boarded a ship in the harbor. Cannons fired as the White Crest forced an opening through the country’s armada. The news of the coup in the castle was just arriving at the port; too late to halt Prince Edan’s escape. Those captains loyal to their jobs futilely returned fire while those loyal to land and crown abandoned ship and took to the hills to begin building a rebellion against the false king.

The rebellion continued at sea as well, led by Prince Edan and his loyal crew, and the years passed. King Ferim grew in power, but dissent also grew as the people thought of their lost prince. The Oracle watched as a sickly green shadow began to grow in Altnoia. First the shadow was contained, as a shadow should be, by the forces of light and dark. It clung to Ferim’s robes, his shoes, and his very breath. But sickness spreads quickly. As Ferim breathed on his councilors, their shadows also began to grow ill. Ferim walked through the city, and everywhere he stepped, a pool of deadly miasma formed. Soon the shadow was hanging over all of Altnoia.

These were the images the Oracle’s mind provided to symbolize corruption and greed as they fermented. As filling one’s own pockets with gold and gems went above the good of the country. As regular citizens fought to produce enough grain to feed their families and pay the tithe the king demanded. As they sickened and died when blight came to the crops and deadly illness into the wells.

The people remembered the prosperity they had enjoyed under the murdered king, and they remembered their prince had escaped that day of blood. The people hoped for a better life, and the rebellion grew in strength every day. King Ferim sat on his throne and heard those whispers, and he knew Prince Edan had to die for his reign to continue.

And thus, the present was ended. Now it was time for the future, for the unknown, and the possible paths diverged in dozens of directions. Should King Ferim go riding on one sunny day in late spring, his horse would step in a hole, and both horse and false-king would be dead. But such an event was unlikely. King Ferim was afraid of riding, as that was allegedly what had killed his beloved mother. The Oracle discarded that path and moved on to another.

The Oracle was not alone in her mind, which helped her sort through the possibilities of each future path. She was myriad, the consciousness of each Oracle that had come before her current body held safely within her. Each consciousness sorted quickly, soon finding the most likely paths of future possibilities. The Oracle watched each one occur in her mind’s eye.

*

The blight continued to grow in Altnoia until the green sludge was opaque and cloying. Fully half the peasant population had died in their beds, where their bodies rotted because no one remaining had the strength to dig graves. King Ferim sat on his throne, where he would also die, along with court, castle, and kingdom. A neighboring kingdom would send their armies, kill all those remaining who were still suffering from disease, and take over, never realizing that they too had stepped into the miasma. The circle of death would continue endlessly. Prince Edan would die of old age in a pirate slum, unable to find the means to save his country.

*

The White Crest was sinking, fire eating at her sails and water filling her hull. Sailors ran around frantically, trying everything they could to save their doomed ship. They were surrounded on all sides by the mighty armada of Altnoia. Slowly, ever so slowly, the ship sank beneath the waves. Every sailor on board joined her in the murky depths, helped along by bullets to ensure none survived. Prince Edan was one of the last to die, but soon the sea took him as well. King Ferim had won; he had destroyed any remaining heir to the throne. As the very last of the royal line, he could wear the crown legitimately and none could gainsay him. And the world began to die.

*

King Ferim was dead, fat and corpulent as he lay in his own lifeblood on the same floor where he had killed his brother, Calder. One of his trusted councilors held the bloody sword and placed the crown on his own head, only to be stabbed in the back in turn. Civil war erupted as faction fought against faction until the green shadow turned bloody red. Prince Edan would throw in his weight behind his own faction, trying to win back his throne, only to die on the battlefield with everyone else.

*

The Oracle cast further for solutions. There had to be a better future, one that did not end with the death of everything she was sworn to protect.

The green miasma continued to grow. One day a wealthy merchant landed on the shores of the town that supplied the Oracle’s own Monastery. His smile oozed green sludge as he shook hands with the mayor and the captain of the guard. The shadow spread until a water sprite began coughing and drowned in her own element. One by one they died, all the Caste members in the Monastery. Even the Oracle began to cough and sicken. With the Oracle’s death, the Monastery collapsed. Fire fought against Water, Earth against Air, until the very world itself was ripped apart.

*

A pirate ship limped through the ocean, battered and broken, as an entire armada chased it. At least one mast was snapped in half and many of the sails had holes from cannon fire. The deck was equally scarred, the sailors forced to navigate carefully around splintered holes as they rushed to keep the ship afloat and the cannons loaded. A battle was being fought and soon it would be lost, by the looks of it. On the prow and up in the crow’s nest, the prince of Altnoia stood tall despite the end being near. Suddenly, fire bloomed from overhead. A massive dragon swooped low over the enemy ships, his flaming wings spread wide. He passed between the sun and the prince and the resulting shadow was bright and clean.

The Oracle opened her eyes. So, there was one possibility. One among dozens where death did not reign. And even that one possibility diverged into dozens of paths, many of which resulted in that same pirate ship sinking beneath the waves with the prince on board, the dragon screaming in agony as the waves extinguished his flame. Still, one hope was better than none. It was certainly better than any of the other options.

Resolute, the Oracle stood and walked out of her meditation chamber into the main room of her home. She walked to the front door, pulled on the handle until the door was open a crack, and spoke to the guards waiting outside.

“Bring me the Dragon of Fire,” she said imperiously before letting the door slide shut again. There was one tiny hope that didn’t end in blood and death, and she was banking everything on it.