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  PROPHECY

  by

  Greg Garden

  A ROC BOOK

  ROC

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Books USA Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Books Ltd. 27 Wrights Lane,

  London W8 5TZ, England

  Penguin Books Australia Ltd, Ringwood,

  Victoria, Australia

  Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B2 Penguin Books (N.Z.) Ltd, 182-190 Wairau Road, Auckland 10, New Zealand

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: Harmondsworth, Middlesex, England First published by Roc, an imprint of Dutton Signet, a division of Penguin Books USA Inc.

  First Printing, July, 1994,

  10 987654321

  Copyright © FAS A, 1994 All rights reserved

  Series Editor: Donna Ippolito

  Cover: Joel Biske

  Interior Illustrations: Joel Biske

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK MARCA REGISTRADA

  EARTHDAWN, FASA, and the distinctive EARTHDAWN and FASA logos are trademarks of the FASA Corporation, 1100 W. Cermak, Suite B305, Chicago, IL 60608

  Printed in the United States of America

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

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  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  1

  No one has work for a wizard with holes in his shoes. Cymric paused briefly to weave a delicate illusion. Holding his staff stiffly enough for show, he strode down the second hill in now-gleaming boots, down into the village of Twin Chin. The wizard rotated his shoulders and shook his thin arms to expand the sides of his robe. The breeze was too light to catch the cloth, but the sunlight glinted brightly on the robe’s rich blues. The young wizard swept his hand through black hair, trying to keep it out of his eyes. He then took deliberate steps down the dusty slope. He wanted to give Twin Chin’s residents time to see him. Cymric also wanted a chance to survey the town.

  The breeze shifted, bringing with it the scent of cinnamon. Cymric smiled; cinnamon rolls were a favorite, despite the difficulties he’d had with the Bakers Guild in Tuakan. Cinnamon also meant some of the villagers had enough coin to afford the occasional indulgence—^an important bit of information when the wizard came to setting his prices. Cymric counted the buildings—sixty-five of them, eight of brick or stone. Two of the outermost buildings were burned, but the rest of the village looked in good shape.

  Cymric’s smile widened until he caught himself and adopted a sterner, more wizardly expression. Drawing nearer, he saw three little girls loudly playing Hobmen in the Field. One in a yellow smock was the first to glance up in the right direction, then the other two followed her gaze, until all three were staring. Cymric paused, leaning on his staff for effect, then made broad, theatrical motions with his right hand. Squealing in excitement, the girls took off toward town.

  You might eat well tonight, lad, thought Cymric, and increased his pace to time his entrance appropriately. Just then, a woman rounded the comer of building carrying a full pail of water. Seeing Cymric, she stutter-stepped, sloshing enough water to cause a solid splatl Villagers glanced from out of the doorways of their shops. A few, emboldened by their second-story vantage point, followed Cymric’s progress toward the well that stood at the center of Twin Chin. The well was rimmed by good gray stone, and a dusty bucket hung from the rope wound around the crankshaft. Opposite the crank was a peculiar statue. Carved from rose quartz, the statue showed a young girl, her left arm extended, right arm across her body. The statue girl held the palms of both hands face up, as though she were inviting the traveler to drink at the well. Cymric thought it odd that the statue had no face: the head was hollow, narrowing to a pipe that disappeared down into the statue. He stopped by the statue, twice thumping his staff upon the ground.

  “Gendefolk, I am Cymric! I am a far traveler, a man of magic!” As he spoke, he began to walk a large, slow circle around the well, at the same time spinning in smaller, tighter circles. His movements were smooth and relaxed, his staff held up and out. As he spun, the wizard Cymric sized up those who watched him. Standing by the roadhouse he saw a woman armored in crystal chain; strapped to her side was a broadsword in a leather scabbard adorned with enamel writing. Cymric’s smile faltered slightly under her dark-eyed gaze. Probably she was an adept. Possibly a swordmaster. Perhaps the sheriff of Twin Chin? She could pose a problem.

  “I have descended into Kaer Irisoi and returned,” he went on. “I have solved the riddle of Chandler’s Cross.” He turned past the couple who were obviously the village bakers. Middle-aged, disciplined enough not to grow fat on their goods. Standing there in flour-covered aprons, they gazed upon Cymric with looks of poorly concealed anticipation. They would not be a problem.

  “My flames have routed trolls, and my will has broken wraiths. I have learned spells coveted in the halls of Throal,” Cymric said. He spun past a blacksmith. The blacksmith’s arms were crossed, his eyes closely following each of Cymric’s moves. He began to trail the wizard, perhaps to better hear every word he said. The blacksmith was going to be a problem.

  “I have talked to the spirits. The spirits told me that the gentlefolk of Twin Chin have a problem,” Cymric said. He slowed slightly, beginning to weave an astral thread for a spell. As he was doing so, a man in a red-dyed linen kimono patterned after those of the dwarf merchants of Throal moved into Cymric’s field of vision. The silver threads looked genuine, but the kimono’s dwarven-looking runes were nonsense rather than a list of family accomplishments. The man’s cologne was spicy in the dwarven fashion, far too liberally applied to his jowly face. He was breathing heavily and beginning to perspire, probably from the simple exertion of getting here from wherever. This man was going to be a gold mine.

  “So I now ask the spirits for a sign. Show me, oh spirits! Show me who understands best the problem that I might learn what services are required of Cymric the wizard!” Cymric’s face masked the strain his patter caused his spellcasting. He tied off the thread to the spell pattern, and cast a flame flash on the tip of his staff. The flame arced toward the jowly man, the fire coming close enough to make him stumble backward, his mouth open and working in inarticulate protest. The gathered villagers gasped. Blast, thought Cymric, the flame was too close and looked nothing like a sylph. He took one long step forward toward the jowly man, then nodded curtly and thumped his staff twice.

  “So it is you, sir, whom the spirits have chosen. I only hope they have chosen wisely. You are ?” he asked, sustaining the “are” for two beats.

  His kimono reacting to the jiggle underneath, the man waddled forward. “I am Drofin,” he said. “I am mayor and glass merchant for Twin Chin.” Cymric smiled and lowered his eyelids a notch, hoping to create an expression that conveyed only a modicum of approval and a minimum of respect. In response, Drofin straightened his shoulders and tried to instantly grow three inches taller. Cymric’s mouth twitched as he restrained a grin.
/>
  “Mayor Drofin, if you would be so kind as to tell me the details of your problem, I am ready to put my skills at your disposal,” said Cymric.

  “Didn’t your spirits tell you?” said the blacksmith. (’ymric turned his head left to see the blacksmith casually walking over to the mayor. The mayor glanced at the blacksmith, than back at Cymric.

  “Drofin, you are mighty impressed by a wizard whose robes have so much blue and whose hair has so little white,” said the blacksmith. As Cymric squared to face the man, the bakers also walked up to join the mayor. Then four other villagers, farmers arriving fresh from their fields, strolled over to the mayor’s group. The swords-woman, however, stayed put. Good, thought Cymric. I’ll take what help I can get.

  “I think we need to know what sort of wizard he is,” said a farmer. Another nodded. The mayor caught the nod, and puffed himself up to full size.

  “Yes, um, Cymric, we have heard tales of a magician in Havel town who, um, perpetrated a dastardly ...,” said the mayor.

  “Burned a man’s bones while his flesh was still on him. Did the same thing to the man’s two brothers,” finished the farmer. Cymric blinked. He had debated whether to cross the river and try his luck in Havel. Now he could imagine what kind of reception he might have received.

  “No, friend, I haven’t come that way at all,” said Cymric. He glanced at the bakers. They wore no guild symbols. “I have most recently come from Tuakan,” he said.

  “Oh! They have master bakers in Tuakan,” said the baker man. “I myself began apprenticeship under Hens-worth. Have you heard of him?”

  Yes, I heard him quite clearly as he bellowed for my arrest. Unfortunately, I was most of the way out a window, and couldn’t catch everything he said, thought Cymric.

  “No, baker, I have not. But the loss is certainly mine, especially if his work smells half as delicious as yours,” Cymric said. At least the compliment was genuine; it was nearing the dinner hour. The baker man beamed, and gave the baker woman an affectionate nudge in the ribs.

  “Returning to the problem?” prodded Cymric.

  “My problem,” said the blacksmith, “is that magicians are known for their elixir talk, their flashy spells. They can get everyone to ooh and ahh and then throw them their silver.” The blacksmith crossed his arms, revealing that the man’s left forearm was hairless, probably from a recent accident with fire. “Young wizard, I mean no disrespect, but seems to me magicians go throwing spells at everything. They don’t have to know what the problem is or whether spells are the answer. They just do it. Spells are no substitute for a clear head and a good eye.” The mayor and the bakers looked unsure. Two of the farmers seemed to be in stubborn agreement with the blacksmith. The blacksmith gained confidence and volume from the set of their faces.

  “So, wizard, before you laden your pouch with our silver, we would like to see some proof that you can do something other than song and flash,” said the blacksmith.

  Cymric’s face scrunched into a mask of annoyance, then softened slowly into a more neutral expression. The smith wanted some evidence as to his clear head and good eye, a challenge that had cut off Cymric’s wizard patter as surely as his hammer cracked a faulty blade. Cymric’s gaze quickly touched on each farmer, the two bakers, the mayor, and the blacksmith. The bakers and the mayor might be persuaded, but the deal would have to be argued out and haggled over with the smith and the others. Damn, thought Cymric, I was so close to a decent dinner, I could almost taste it.

  Then the solution struck him so swiftly that he had to laugh. The loud sound startled all but the blacksmith, who might only have flinched ever so slightly. Then again, maybe that was just wishful thinking on Cymric’s part.

  “Blacksmith,” he said, regaining his composure. “I must plead guilty to an occasionally muddled mind. That is a hazard of filling it up with spells and mystical facts,” said Cymric. He again began to spin in a slow, tight circle, staff held above his head.

  “There is nothing wrong with my vision,” said Cymric. He stopped his spin, holding the staff in his right hand, pointing in the direction from which he’d come, “and my reasoning is still clear. Coming into town I startled a woman carrying water, causing a spill.” He then swung his staff to hit the bucket of the well with a satisfying thunk.

  “When I arrived in the center of your village, the bucket was dry. That the dinner hour is near, yet no one draws water from the well merely confirms my reasoning that your well has gone dry,” said Cymric. Now he gently knocked his head with his staff.

  “All of this was obvious to me. I apologize for not making myself clear to the mayor,” said Cymric, nodding and smiling at the mayor. Mayor Drofin beamed back. “I meant to ask for details on the well. How long has it been dry? What are the circumstances surrounding the loss of water?”

  “A warlock cursed the well,” said the baker woman.

  “Or a Horror inhabits it,” said the baker man.

  “Clearly an act of perfidious, um, supernatural origins,” offered the mayor.

  “The well went dry two days ago. When I lowered the bucket late on the first day, the bottom was powder,” said the blacksmith.

  Cymric thought about it for a few moments, then said, “1 believe the mayor is right. This problem has supernatural origins. The blacksmith has offered evidence that the well dried up with unnatural speed.” Cymric turned away from the villagers. He looked down into the well, scooped up a pebble, tossed it in to hear the rattle and clack as it bounced on the bottom. He then turned back to the bakers.

  “I don’t think a Horror infests your well. I am no expert on Scourge lore, but legend suggests that if a Horror did inhabit your well, it would want you to use it,” said Cymric. The baker man seemed both disappointed and relieved.

  “A curse makes the most sense. I have no specific remedy for curses, but curses are magic. And I can dispel hostile magics,” said Cymric. He kept to himself the knowledge that a competent curse might be only temporarily removed by his skill. Do not advertise your weaknesses before the deal is closed.

  “You should know something of the well,” said the mayor, “My grandfather was a magician, an elementalist, who enticed a water sprite to live in our well. He promised her safe haven from some of the river’s dangers in return for her keeping our well water pure.”

  To confirm a guess, Cymric asked, “Does she use the statue to talk to you?” The mayor bobbed his head enthusiastically.

  “She would make requests, asking for dandelions or meadow wings, that sort of thing. We would leave her small treats, such as fresh marion berries or kilm. During holidays, she would make the well sing for our night dances,” said the mayor.

  “What is her name?” asked Cymric. The mayor looked around at the farmers, then the bakers, and finally the blacksmith. He took a deep breath, but the blacksmith cut the mayor off before the man could speak.

  “We don’t know. We have never known. Phraetun told us that the sprite would leave instantly if anyone tried to learn her name,” said the blacksmith.

  Cymric nodded his head. Perhaps someone in town was a fledgling magician, trying to learn the sprite’s name in order to command it. The sprite could have left in a huff, drying up the well in retribution. Or it really could be a curse. To find out, he would have to get to work. There was one very important item to clear up first.

  “About my fee,” said Cymric, “I customarily charge three hundred silver pieces for curse removal.” Cymric remained impassive as the mayor looked aghast, his right arm flopping about like a fish on a deck, seemingly caught in the confusion of his thoughts.

  “I simply cannot ... that is, we simply must not allow ... this is to say ..said the mayor. The baker woman moved over to the mayor, taking his right arm and more or less confining it to his side. Then the blacksmith stepped in front of Drofin, silencing him.

  “Lower your price, wizard. We can still get water from the river,” said the blacksmith.

  “Yes, you can. Today. But whateve
r cursed the well might not be through with this village. It might still be hiding in the well,” said Cymric. The baker woman looked directly at him. The look was watchful, not intimidating.

  “You said there was no Horror in the well,” she said.

  “I told you that I doubt a Horror inhabits the well,” Cymric said. “There are more creatures in the world than just Horrors.”

  “What guarantee can you give us that your remedy will work?” asked the blacksmith.

  “Smith, spell magics are an uncertain craft,” said Cymric.

  “Uncertain skills wanting certain coin,” snorted the blacksmith.

  Cymric leaned his staff in the crook formed by the elbow of his bent left arm. He used both hands to smooth out the wrinkles in the front of his robe. He tugged on one sleeve, then the other, until the cuffs rode evenly. The wizard glanced at the villagers. The mayor and one of the farmers looked nervous. The baker man blinked once too often, a sign of indecision. Only the blacksmith looked calmly committed to haggling a better deal. Cymric decided to strike the deal now.

  “Gentlefolk, the issue is simple. You either pay me to descend into the well, taking the risks for you. Or you save your silver and test fortune yourself,” he said. The villagers huddled. Cymric smiled slightly, secure in the outcome of their frantic meeting. Tonight he could start living again. If he were careful, he’d have no money worries for five or six weeks. He adopted his most open expression, all the while thinking that the mayor’s nervousness seemed inappropriate for the sum Cymric had asked.

  “We can offer you twenty-four and a half silvers. Most of it in copper,” the mayor said. Cymric’s face froze between expressions, until he realized his appearance must be most unwizardly. He opened his mouth, but thought moved quicker than tongue, so he closed it again.

  “An ogre band struck a little over two weeks ago. They demanded gold. We refused,” the blacksmith said.

  “Then they burned Jenkins’ house and Old Chula’s place. Old Chula went up with her home,” the baker woman said.