The Beacon: Palisade (3)

Episode 8: "The Prophetess"

Oct 23, 2024

Adon left Grania’s orphanage not long thereafter and strolled back toward the palace gate. Mentioning the Prophetess to Gran had reminded him that the old Prophetess, whom he had known well, had died while he had been conducting the king’s business elsewhere, and he had not paid his respects. He had a passing acquaintance with the new Prophetess, having spoken with her several times when she had attended her mother. Always pleasant, she had shown herself to be smart and formidable at his last meeting with them when her mother had begun to decline.

He decided to call on her. Personally extending his condolences would give him an opportunity to find out what she might know about the phenomenon he was investigating. In his sporadic interactions with them, he had found the Prophetesses to be spectacularly well-informed about happenings in Margonne.

When the Prophetess needed to speak with the king—or, on rarer occasions, Adon alone—she asked them to meet her at a little Leitan house on the palace plateau, which otherwise lay empty. Historically, the little house had been the residence of the Prophetess, but now it was the last remaining memorial of Leitani rule. For the last two hundred years, the Prophetess’ home had stood in a modest compound on the Fourth Level, just off the main road.

The day being pleasant, Adon readily admitted he would enjoy the walk down the hill. He found the place as he remembered it, a purposely rustic house and yard that recalled the time when the Leitani had roamed the Great Plains, following the massive herds of bison on their yearly migrations to new pastures. The Prophetess and her household even dressed in the ancient costumes of their people, keeping many Leitan customs alive for new generations to learn. They taught the Leitan language and trained new Ghostmen and Wise Women—shamans and herb healers, as some would call them—to pass on the cultural traditions of their ancestors.

Mizuo Peck, an American actress of Cherokee descent

One of these students, a young woman not yet twenty with shining black hair braided in two thick ropes, spied him entering through the gate and hurried to greet him. Dressed in a deerskin skirt, a beaded and embroidered blouse, and leather sandals, she curtsied before him in the Margonni manner and, smiling broadly, asked if she could assist him.

Adon returned the smile. “I hope you can,” he said. “If she can spare a few minutes, I wish to speak with Prophetess Kanita. I’m from the palace and desire to consult with her about a matter.”

The girl curtsied again. “Certainly, sir,” she said. “Please come up on the porch. You can wait in the shade while I pass on your request.”

He followed her up the steps to the porch, and she continued inside the longhouse. Almost immediately, she was back, beckoning him to follow. She led him down a short hallway into a large common room adorned with traditional Leitan furnishings, bison hides, feathered headdresses, and artistic bead-work clothing. As he approached, the Prophetess stood up from her chair near the stone hearth. Nearly fifty years old, Kanita looked like a mature version of the young Wise Woman who had led him to her, though strands of gray speckled her straight, dark hair.

“Adonis Santinetta!” she said happily, clapping her hands in genuine glee. “This is a pleasant surprise!”

“The pleasure is mine, Prophetess!” he replied. “I have been remiss in visiting and extending my condolences after your mother’s death. All Margonne shares your loss. Nuha Tamim was long in her office, and we will miss her wisdom.”

“Thank you, my friend,” the Prophetess said with a slight bow over her right hand in the Leitan manner. “Come and sit! My daughter, Gamila, will bring you a cool drink and the cookies you like so well. In the meantime, tell me why you really came.”

“As perceptive as always,” Adon said with a sigh. “One doesn’t sneak up on a Prophetess.” He settled in a nearby chair, clearing his throat. “The matter is these ‘waves of evil’ people are talking about. Some call them ‘ripples,’ others ‘bubbles’ or ‘rings’ or ‘distortions.’ They seem to be increasing or becoming more effective, and the king is now concerned enough to send me to investigate.”

He watched her face intently as he mentioned the waves of evil and noticed her countenance fall upon hearing the words. At that moment, her daughter brought in a tray of refreshments and arranged them on the table between them. She left after a curtsy a minute later, clearly perceiving the tension in the room.

“You know something, don’t you, Kanita?” Adon said gently.

She nodded just perceptibly. “Well, ‘know’ is too strong a word, but I suspect something, and it’s not good. Not good at all.” She was silent for a long moment while she drank from her glass, giving her time to consider her words. Finally, she asked, “What do you know about the current mood among the Leitani?”

“I admit I know very little,” he said with mild embarrassment. “My responsibilities rarely intersect with the Leitani, and since my father’s retirement, I have had little involvement with the agency and rarely look at the reports. My son, Thesis, handles all the information-gathering these days. You could say I’m borderline ignorant.”

She gave him a gentle smile. “That’s understandable. It’s not your strength. You would rather go see things for yourself.” After taking another drink, she placed her glass on the table. “Well, there is no easy way to say it: A growing number of Leitani think it’s time to return this land to Leitan rule. The discontented are a small part of my people right now but increasing.”

Adon digested this news for a few minutes, then suddenly sat up. “Are you saying these waves of evil are linked to a budding Leitani rebellion?”

Mild anguish flashed on her face before she could control her features. “Perhaps. As I said, I suspect there may be a connection. I just don’t know how. These malignant emanations stink of vile sorcery, the kind that the demon-god Azuri would feed, but I know of no Leitani sorcerers. There have been no true Ghostmen or priests of Azuri for generations. I can’t see how it is possible, but neither can I deny that these waves turn people toward evil. I have difficulty imagining that a lone, self-taught Ghostman could accomplish anything like them, but they are happening.”

“You must have some reason to suspect a connection,” Adon prodded, nonchalantly picking up his—by his uncertain count—fifth cookie.

The Prophetess frowned and squirmed in her seat before answering. “As you know, we teach Leitan history here. Our ancestors’ evils, done in their sincere desire to please Azuri, are part of it, and we pass those stories down to our children now as warnings not to glorify or imitate their ignorance. So, as Wise Women, we have a sense of what their rites and sorceries looked like. These waves of evil are giving me that sense.”

“I assume you have had no visions about them,” Adon said, finishing the cookie.

Kanita shook her head, her face flushing. “Unlike my mothers for many generations, I have never had a vision. I am the Prophetess in name only.”

Adon leaned over and patted her hand in commiseration. “It is early yet, my friend. You will receive them when they are necessary. That’s what your mother always said. ‘Why should a Prophetess see a vision when all is well? They are warnings alerting us to serious trouble ahead.’ I think you were present when she told me that a few years ago.”

“I was,” she replied with a sigh, “and when she said similar things to me dozens of times when I’d become discouraged. I’m afraid I am not of the stature of those who held this office before me.”

“Early days, Kanita,” he said. “Let others make that judgment when your ship docks at your final port-of-call, eh?”

She hung her head. “Of course, you’re right. I am too impatient and insecure. My mother also told me that many times!”

Adon chuckled. “Our mothers often know us better than we know ourselves, I think. That is certainly true of my mother.”

The Prophetess smiled fleetingly before her face turned serious again. “But it does worry me that no warning has come about these vile waves. They have caused chaos, hurt, and death all across Margonne. I would think such evil would be worthy of a warning.”

Adon nodded. “Maybe they will pass soon, and we need no further warning.” He shrugged. “I am not well-versed in religious matters or sorcery, so you should not trust my opinions on them. But,” he lifted an admonitory finger, “if you receive a vision, tell me about it right away—or the king if I am not around. He will want to know immediately. Experience has taught us to trust the visions of the Prophetess. They have always steered us safely through rough seas.”

“I will,” Kanita said, “if I have one. Perhaps it will prevent some disaster or tell us how to stop them.”

“That would be ideal,” Adon agreed, rising from his chair and hearing his knees pop, “and save me a lot of further effort.”

Later, as she prepared to retire for the night, Kanita sat at the edge of her bed, her mind still turning over her troubling conversation with Adon. She had wanted to tell him more—he was her friend—but she just did not know how accurate her information was. At the moment, it was rumor, nothing more. It was hardly credible: A priest of Azuri? And one gathering disciples? Ghostmen, she could believe, since many of the tribes still supported one or more to perform their traditional rituals. But only the evil Chogan had “elevated” his cronies among them to priests, and only when he had ordered the most abominable sacrificial rites to be observed.

It was unthinkable that something like that could be happening again.

Shaking her head, the Prophetess lay down, deciding to worry about it tomorrow. In any case, Adon had already left Palisade, so there was no reason to solve the mystery immediately. Pulling the cotton sheet up, she suddenly found herself standing on a rocky path high on a tall, snow-covered mountain.

She did not recognize the mountain or anything around her, but she knew it as one of the impressive peaks of the Dragon’s Teeth Mountains that defined Margonne’s eastern border. Some of its tallest mountains never lost their snowcap, even through the hottest summers. Where she stood, the snow began above her, and the treeline was hundreds of feet below.

Just yards away, a tall, muscular man knelt before a crude altar of uncut stone on which he or someone in the past had erected a hideous bronze idol. It was roughly made, little more than two irregular spheres, the lower larger than the upper. The top sphere, evidently supposed to resemble a head, was punctured by a gaping hole, like a mouth fixed in a primal scream of rage or open wide like a baby’s, demanding to be fed. Repulsed, Kanita decided the sculptor intended both. The idol seemed to be saying, “Feed me, or I will devour you.”

She knew this idol. The longhouse had a few pictures of similar ones, and their books of Leitan history also contained some. Without a doubt, the black-clad man was worshiping at an altar of Azuri. He seemed unaware of her presence, continuing his repetitive chant without breaking. His arms spread wide in supplication, he kept his eyes closed as a swirling wind whipped his unbound, long black hair about.

Though she had no recollection of moving closer, Kanita shifted to stand behind the altar, looking directly at the kneeling supplicant. He was undoubtedly Leitan, possessing a ruddy, lean face, heavy brow, dark eyes, a large, hooked nose, and a short, narrow mustache and a line of a beard along his jawbone, the last revealing some mixed ancestry, as the Leitani could rarely grow hair on their faces. Yet, what held her eyes were his many facial tattoos: large black coils on each cheek, lightning bolts on either side of his nose, and the idol’s gaping mouth filled with a red eye on his forehead.

The tattoos identified him as a priest of Azuri. Not just a priest—a battle-priest.

Then she suddenly heard what he was chanting. She recognized it immediately: Chogan’s “Warrior’s Prayer.”