The Prophecy Read online

  “Why are you looking for me?” she asked, pretending to be nonchalant.

  The Elder smirked. “I think you know. Now, you can either let me inspect you willingly or…” He narrowed his eyes as his gaze fell upon the nearby soldiers. “I can make you.”

  Despite her racing heart, Layla nodded her assent. She’d been diligent about applying the eye drops before she left the house, as always, though the thought brought her no real comfort. Layla refused to become another casualty in the Ecclesiastics’ relentless pursuit of their fabled Fulfillment, but she didn’t know how to prevent it. For the second time, she lamented her choice to attend the Festival.

  The Elder stepped forward and yanked down her hood. Layla’s long, raven black hair spilled out. Grinning like a man observing a prized horse, the Elder picked up a strand and massaged it between his fingers. Layla barely contained her disgust. The tremor she’d experienced before hummed through her hair into the Elder’s beefy hands. His grin widened.

  When he began his inspection of her eyes, made blue by the drops, his smile faltered. The fluttering in her chest slowed. Maybe the drops would work; maybe she could escape the Elder after all. A movement to her right drew her attention. Another black and purple robed man walked with faltering steps toward the Elder.

  “We’re almost ready for the ceremony, Elder,” the man said, submissive. “Is she someone we should consider?”

  The Elder’s eyes narrowed into slits. “She has the hair, but her eyes are blue.”

  “Then she cannot be the one,” the other man said.

  “I felt something, Amster.” Werrick looked stumped. “The First Ones are trying to tell me something.”

  “Perhaps they are telling you that it’s time to start the ceremony,” Amster offered. The poor soul’s eyes lit up like he’d actually stumbled upon something his superior might deem useful.

  After sending the other man a withering glare, Elder Werrick returned to his careful observation of Layla. She stared back, the stubbornness Samson bemoaned earlier replacing her fear. If she stood her ground, maybe the Elder would back down. It was her only option.

  “She ran from us, and those boys defended her. Something doesn’t fit.” Werrick gnawed his lip, chewing on his lip and the problem like one working out a complicated puzzle.

  Layla cursed herself yet again for coming to the Day of Dawning Festival. As usual, she should have listened to the wise counsel of the Mantars. She glanced at Amster, hoping the man could convince the Elder to attend the ceremony, leaving her alone. The moment she did, Layla realized her mistake.

  “There,” Werrick cried out, pointing to her face. “Look, there, in the corner of her eye. They are purple. The color change is some trick by those blasted Voltons, I know it. They mean to foil my quest as they always have.”

  Voltons? The faces of Layla’s aging physician and boring tutor swam through her mind. As far as she knew, the Voltons devoted their lives to medicine and learning. Other than wearing robes—green instead of black—and sharing space in the Borderlands, the Voltons had nothing in common with the Ecclesiastics. Why would they be interested in obstructing the plans of someone like Elder Werrick?

  Amster leaned in, his curious green eyes boring into hers. “I’m sorry, Elder, I only see blue.”

  Werrick shoved the other man back. “Go, prepare the stage for me. This Day of Dawning will be like no other.”

  Even though she had no chance to escape now, Layla shoved the Elder with all her might. The blow sent him flying into the baker’s door, which splintered under the force, and she darted forward. The Vanguard soldiers moved to block her.

  “We are all Vanguards,” she pleaded. “Please let me go.”

  For a moment, they hesitated. Layla used the opening to slip around them. She ran as fast as her legs would carry her, but they proved to be too slow. Within moments, the soldiers leapt upon her, knocking her to the ground. Wrenching Layla up by her hair, they dragged her back to the Elder, whose face now bled from his encounter with the baker’s door.

  “I see you’re going to be trouble.” He brushed the dirt off his robes. “You can’t escape your destiny, girl.”

  Werrick made a motion, and the soldiers from earlier dragged a half conscious Samson into view. Horrified, Layla clamped a hand over her mouth to keep from crying out. Blood seeped from a gaping wound on his head.

  “You will do as I say, girl, or he dies.” Werrick didn’t bother to conceal his fury. “I’ve searched for you my whole life, and I will not let you ruin this moment.”

  “Elder, you don’t mean to announce her,” Amster said, his mouth left open in shock. “We haven’t done the proper testing. We don’t know for sure.”

  “No testing is required,” Werrick snapped. “I know she’s the one. The First Ones made it clear to me.”

  “Elder—” Amster tried again, but Werrick silenced the other man with one look. “As you wish.”

  “Follow me,” Werrick commanded the soldiers.

  They hauled Layla and Samson to the back of the platform the Ecclesiastics had erected earlier. Motioning for them to stop, the Elder surveyed the masses. The townspeople waited in solemn silence for his arrival. When he smiled to himself, a shiver of disgust rocked Layla. If Samson’s life weren’t in danger, she would have gladly ripped the Elder apart.

  Werrick turned to the soldiers. “Do not let her out of your sight, and if she tries to escape, kill the boy.”

  Without another word, the Elder spun around and dawdled to the top, gathering everyone’s attention. A reverent hush befell the crowd. The most important moment of the Festival had arrived…the reading of the Prophecy. Most years, Layla suffered through the reading, anxious to get to the more enjoyable activities, but the presence of the Ecclesiastics, combined with the now barren town, brought a new somberness to the event. Despite her current situation, she found herself listening with a single-minded focus she’d never had during any other ceremony.

  “Today, we celebrate The Dawning, our origins.” Werrick’s voice rose, his words descending upon the townspeople like a hawk swooping in on prey. A shiver ran through Layla.

  “We celebrate the First Ones, those who came before, those who made us all.” The Elder spoke in a deep tone that resonated through the square. “We Ecclesiastics have devoted our lives to worshipping the First Ones and to studying their great Prophecy. Today, in celebration of our ancestors and the peace they foretold, I will read the sacred words of the Prophecy.”

  A murmur went through the multitude. In Vanguard, peace was a divisive word. For centuries, Layla’s people, endowed with superior strength, had been in constant strife with their neighbors, the Ethereals, empowered with the ability to control minds. Yet there were those from both sides who longed for this elusive peace, those who believed in the Ecclesiastics’ promises and the Prophecy of the First Ones.

  “Silence.” Elder Werrick commanded. The crowd fell mute. “The Ecclesiastics are a neutral people, serving both the Vanguard and Ethereals without prejudice. We seek peace as we always have, and the First Ones have shown us the way through which this conciliation will come. Through the Prophecy.”

  “The Prophecy,” hundreds of black and purple robed men hummed.

  “Blessed be the First Ones.” Townspeople chanted the words in response to Elder Werrick, but they spoke by rote instead of with zeal. Layla shivered again.

  “The Prophecy reads, ‘In a time of war, when the land is divided amongst the two, she, with raven black hair, purple eyes, and a special blessing from the First Ones shall bring peace. She, from one side, shall marry royalty on the other, and peace shall reign from that day forth.’” His proclamation, spoken originally by the First Ones and passed down through generations, hung in the air.

  In unison, all four soldiers turned toward Layla. They appraised her, truly seeing her for the first time. A flush rose to her cheeks at their newfound scrutiny. She wondered again how the Elder had gotten them to cooperate. Samson’s hea
d lolled as he let out a mournful sound. Struggling against her captors, Layla reached for him.

  “Please stop,” a soldier whispered in her ear, “or we will be forced to kill him. I don’t want to do that.”

  “Today, our centuries long search has ended,” Werrick said. A surprised murmur rose from the crowd. He turned toward Layla. “Step forward, child.” His tone left no room for argument.

  To preserve Samson’s life, Layla willed herself to put one foot in front of the other, though her legs shook so hard she was sure she would fall. Her heart slammed against her chest.

  Somehow, she made it to the raised platform without falling, though her quaking legs threatened to give out. Layla took a deep breath and walked over to the Elder. He studied her meticulously, just as he had done earlier, though he seemed to look through her this time.

  “Who are you?” he asked, booming as he performed this charade for the benefit of the crowd. His breath smelled sour. Layla tried not to gag. The Elder spoke under his breath so only she could hear. “You will answer me, or the boy dies. Do not make a fool of me, girl, or I will destroy you and everything you love.”

  Pushing down her desire to spit in his face, she managed, “Layla Givens.”

  “Who are your parents?”

  “I don’t know.” Layla dipped her head. Almost everyone in the crowd knew her story, yet she still felt exposed sharing it here, on a platform with the Elder. “I was found as a baby by the Mantar family, and they took me in.”

  “And your name, Givens…how did you come by it if you were found by the Mantar family?”

  “My adopted parents gave me the last name Givens because they believe I was given to them.”

  “Layla,” he muttered. “Layla means dark beauty.” She didn’t know what to say to that, so she remained quiet.

  As she stood across from this loathsome man, who held several lives in the palm of his hand, anger renewed itself inside her. Layla could hurl the Elder off the platform if she wanted. Given her Vanguard strength, the action would be simple, yet Samson held her in place. Even if his life didn’t hang in the balance, the townspeople would never understand her actions. The Ecclesiastics’ religious fanaticism toward the First Ones and the Prophecy afforded them special deference, allowing them to wield an unusual authority within both Vanguard and Etherea. So, no matter how much the idea of heaving his body into the butcher’s roof appealed to her, Layla would simply endure the Elder’s performance.

  “Dark hair, purple eyes, no parents…” Elder Werrick muttered, peering up at the sky with such hope on his face. Layla recognized his grandstanding, but the mystified crowd looked toward the heavens with him like they believed the First Ones themselves might appear there.

  “I am no one special,” Layla said, to convey there must be some mistake.

  “Oh, I believe you are very special, my dear.”

  The old man took her hand and raised it far above her head. She hoped the crowd couldn’t see how hard she shook. Layla glanced up at the gray clouds in the sky…a bad omen…she never should have laughed at the idea.

  “Finally, the Prophecy has come true. She has arrived at long last. Layla Givens is the Fulfillment.”

  Chapter Two

  Layla

  Layla slumped against the seat of the carriage the Vanguard soldiers had thrown her into on the command of Werrick. A dangerous mixture of confinement and fury boiled inside her. Across from her, the guard watched her every move, tracking even the most subtle of shifts. His eager gaze suggested he would attack at the slightest provocation. Vexed, she wondered again how her own people could turn against her in favor of the Ecclesiastics. If the soldier weren’t a Vanguard, she would have already escaped by now. She crossed her arms and glared.

  “Are we going to move sometime today?” Layla offered him a tight, sarcastic smile.

  “We go when the Elder says to go.”

  “And Vanguards have always done what the Elder said from the beginning of…wait, never. Until now. Why is that?” She turned her head to the side, awaiting his answer.

  The soldier snorted. “There are plenty of people out there who want to see you dead.” He jerked a finger toward the heavily draped window. “Maybe I should just throw you and your smart mouth out there to them and see how long you last.”

  The chanting outside grew louder, almost like the people heard his threat and chose to respond. Layla’s leg twitched, but she kept her arms locked against her chest. She wouldn’t show weakness.

  A knock on the side of the carriage startled them both. Casting Layla a warning glance, the soldier opened the door. Grant stuck his head inside, his face hard. Though she wanted to sigh with relief, Layla remained stoic.

  “The ranking officer told me to relieve you of duty because you’re needed elsewhere.” The ease with which Grant lied jolted her. When they were younger, he often spouted the great virtue of honesty. Had his time in the military adjusted his values, or had he chosen to forgo his moral code for her?

  The other guard, who to Layla’s relief failed to connect Grant to Layla, nodded and jumped up from his seat. Her adoptive brother slid into the vacant spot, shutting the door with a resounding bang. Once they were hidden from view, he wrapped Layla in his arms and flattened her against his barreled chest.

  “Samson?” Layla asked, barely able to force out the name.

  “He’s being taken by carriage to the Ecclesiastic compound in the Borderlands.” Layla grimaced. Samson—in trouble because of her—the notion tortured her. Grant pulled back just enough so she could see the mischievous sparkle in his greenish brown eyes. “But they failed to place any Vanguard soldiers in the carriage with him. Before they even get close to the Borderlands, Samson will have reduced his transportation into a pile of shattered wood fragments.”

  “You’re certain?”

  Grant displayed no hint of concern. “You know Samson.”

  Layla nodded against the rough fabric of his soldier’s uniform. Grant seemed so sure of his brother’s safety that she shoved her fears down. He sat back, creating space between them. Where she’d seen impishness just moments before, she now saw distress.

  “I know Samson will be fine, but I’m worried about you. Are they taking you to the Borderlands to perform Fulfillment testing?”

  “I don’t think so. Elder Werrick already proclaimed me the Fulfillment. To test me now would cast doubt on his declaration.”

  Grant blew out a frustrated breath. “I hope you’re right, Layla, because people have died during those tests.”

  “I know.”

  “That’s a big part of why we’ve kept you hidden for so long.”

  Layla pinched her lips together. “I know that, Grant, but you have to trust me. I think the Elder is more interested in being the one to find the Fulfillment than he is in ensuring I’m the correct choice.”

  “But that’s blasphemous.” Grant’s eyebrows furrowed. In that moment, he looked just like Samson.

  “I honestly don’t think Werrick cares.” Layla skipped ahead to the part that bothered her most. “He’s going to force me to marry the Ethereal prince. An Ethereal, Grant. They’ll take the first opportunity to wipe my mind so that I’m nothing but a blubbering idiot.”

  Despite their dire situation, he chuckled. “You don’t have anything to fear from the Ethereals, Layla. They are not the monsters we were made to believe.”

  She drew back, her eyes wide. “What are you saying? You’re a soldier in the Vanguard army, sworn to fight against the Ethereals. How can you say such a thing?”

  Grant looked down at his hands and remained silent for so long that she didn’t think he’d speak again. “I just know. They won’t hurt you.”

  “If you say so…” Layla let her doubt hang between them, watching as Grant frowned. He sat back against the seat with a thud. A myriad of expressions passed over his face. She watched him struggle, trying to figure out what to say next. When his gaze landed upon her again, he regarded her in a new
way, like a stranger. She squirmed.

  “Do you believe you are her...the Fulfillment, I mean?”

  Layla considered his question, the same one she’d been asking herself over and over. “The Fulfillment has to have black hair, purple eyes, and some special gift from the First Ones. Not even the Ecclesiastics know what that last part means. I wasn’t lying when I told the Elder that I was no one special. I’m sure he’s got the wrong girl.”

  “Then you escape the first chance you get.” His protective growl further endeared him to her.

  “But Samson…”

  “I will get word to you once Samson is free. In the meantime, I’ll move Mother and Father to a safe location so you won’t have to worry about them as well.”

  Layla nodded, relieved to have her older brother provide her with sound advice. Her own thoughts swirled so violently she had trouble grabbing hold of just one. His plan could work, she decided. With her family away from the Ecclesiastics, the Elder would no longer be able to force her cooperation.

  “Layla!” Someone screamed from outside, interrupting their conversation.

  Grant and Layla exchanged terrified looks. “Mother.” Her brother forced out the word with a strangled breath.

  He pushed back the curtain blocking their view of the crowd. A line of black-robed men, with Vanguard soldiers at their sides, pushed back a swelling group of townspeople. Layla scanned the faces, finding true believers, who gazed at her reverently, mixed in with peace opponents, who sneered at her with murderous eyes. Finally, her gaze landed upon her adoptive mother. Layla raised her hand, compelled, and reached out toward Lia Mantar.

  “Let her go.” Lia’s usually soft voice held uncharacteristic strength.

  Elder Werrick stepped into Layla’s view, his backside almost obscuring Lia from sight. “Madam, step back. The Fulfillment has a duty, a responsibility, and no one will stand in her way.”