Barek Hadar, Duke of Odarka, kept a stone mansion on High Street for when he visited Everton. Trevn had spent little time in this area of the city. The houses were so grand and the estates so vast, he couldn’t jump from one roof to the next. Besides, most of the people who lived here spent more time at court than in their own homes. If Trevn wanted to see one of them, he could usually find them at the castle.
A manservant ushered Trevn and Cadoc to a cozy sitting room on the first level, where the duke was already waiting. He was average height with squashed features and Father Tomek’s eyes. He stood and bowed.
“Thank you for seeing me, Duke,” Trevn said.
“Your Highness, you honor me, the island of Odarka, House Barek, and all of High Street with your presence. Do sit down. Can I offer you anything?”
Trevn sat on the proffered chair. It was soft and oddly resembled a throne. “Nothing but privacy.” He glanced at the servants.
The duke waved them away, all but Cadoc, who remained by the door. He sat across from Trevn on a noticeably smaller chair. Was the man trying to flatter him? Or was Trevn reading meaning where there was none?
“The official report from the palace physician is that your father died from natural causes,” Trevn said.
“Yes, I saw the report,” the duke said.
“The report was false. Your father was poisoned. I was with him when he died.”
“I figured as much,” the duke said. “He had powerful enemies.”
As Trevn well knew. “He told me to come to you, and so I have.”
“I admit, we did not expect you to,” the duke said. “Father was never certain where your loyalties lay.”
“Did he think me a traitor?”
“Nothing like that. He wasn’t certain about your faith. Which gods you served, if any. It’s common knowledge that you openly disdain adherence to any standard of belief or tradition for the sake of it. But what a man does and professes with his mouth is sometimes different from what he believes in his heart.”
Trevn had never served any of the gods, had always made a point of ignoring them. “And Father Tomek hoped I followed Arman?”
“He did. He also wasn’t certain where you stood on the Heir War.”
“I thought that obvious. Everyone knows Janek and I don’t get along.”
“People believe it an act. Rumors say your backman is well established in Sâr Janek’s retinue. And Sâr Janek’s concubines claim that you may summon them at will. With Sâr Wilek missing, Sâr Janek is raising a great deal of support. It’s suspected your father might declare him Heir.”
“Before knowing whether or not Wilek is dead?”
“Wars are anything but fair, Your Highness.”
Trevn supposed that was true. “Father Tomek wanted me to choose a side. Publicly?”
“He hoped you would. He left a letter for you, should you come to call.” The duke stood and walked to the hearth, removing a scroll from the mantel. He crossed the room and handed it to Trevn. Trevn unrolled it and read.
Sâr Trevn,
If you have come to my son, the situation is dire. Years ago Rosârah Laviel conspired with Rôb priests to murder all the Armanite priests in our realm. I am speaking of the Great Priest Scourge of 865 that we studied together. My mentor was one of those killed. There was so much more I hoped to teach you about Arman. Now I must leave that to the God himself.
Because I was a sâr, privately tutoring you in Sarikar, my faith escaped the notice of Rosârah Laviel and the Rôb priests. I had hoped that yours would as well. But if you are reading this, the priests have discovered me and grown suspicious of you. They will find a way to test you. Be wary! They will do all they can to ascertain which god you serve.
You are well aware of the factions fighting over whether Sâr Wilek or Sâr Janek will inherit the throne upon your father’s death. It was always my hope that you would advise Sâr Wilek in the days to come, that you might present Arman as the Only God. I know I ask a lot, that you are uncertain in matters of faith. I charge you to study this matter until you determine the truth for yourself.
I have included along with this letter the words of a prophecy we discussed together. This third version comes from an Armanite prophet. My son has the original clay tablet in his possession. If you would like to see it, simply ask him.
I believe this prophecy is about to be fulfilled—that both the Root of Arman and the Five Woes are upon us. If our people are to survive, we must find The Prophet. We will also need a king with a strong vision and a strong god.
No god is stronger than He Who Made the World.
You are a clever young man, but faith is not based on knowledge or even logic. You cannot simply follow the rules of the Holy Book and call yourself a follower of Arman. Put your trust in the God—the one who wrote the Book—for Only He is above reproach.
Blessings on your life until we meet in Shamayim,
Father Tomek Hadar
The second page was the prophecy transcribed in Father Tomek’s hand.
Behold, I say to you, that in those days the root of Arman will be destroyed and usher in the end of all things. There will be mourning and great weeping heard throughout the land. Realm will rise against realm, brother against brother. There will be earthquakes, floods, and fire from the mountains. Rocks will crumble, and the ground will sink into the depths. Not one stone will be left atop another—each and every one will be thrown down. And then the end will come. And Armania, the glory of the Five Realms, the beauty of Arman’s eye, will no longer be the head of all things.
Therefore Arman will raise up for you a prophet, who is not of your people. The prophet’s words will save all who listen and obey, and will bring peace between mother and father.
—Armanite prophecy from the prophet Ottee, House Hadar 168
Trevn let the scrolls fall to his lap. “My father might live many more years—might live longer than Wilek.”
“He might,” the duke said, “but no one lives forever.”
Trevn glanced over the prophecy again. “Do you think the Five Woes have come?”
“I do. And I am not alone. There is a group of believers who are preparing for this.”
“Athosians?”
The duke grinned. “Oh, no. Do not lump us in with their ilk. We are Armanites who have formed a council of sorts. We call ourselves the Nahtan. We each oversee or contribute to a task.”
A secret council. The idea piqued the Renegade in Trevn. “What kind of tasks?”
“Storing food, animals, water, supplies, weapons, coal. Building or buying boats.”
“Boats? Why?”
“If the Five Woes come, this land will end. We will need to take to the waters. Sail into the unknown and find new land.”
Trevn’s arms prickled. “What is your task, Your Grace?”
“I am in charge of navigation.”
Trevn scooted to the edge of his seat. “Have you sailed beyond the bowl?”
“Not I,” the duke said. “But I have funded the exploration.”
“Who have you sent?”
“Aldair Livina.”
“But he is mad!”
The duke leveled a reprimanding stare at Trevn. “King Echad declared him mad. What does that tell you?”
That the man had likely gotten in Father’s way. “Where has he gone? Has he found something?”
“He can tell you that himself. I would like you to join us, Sâr Trevn. I would like you to consider taking up a task of your own.”
“Which is . . . ?”
“Convincing Sâr Wilek to join us, then making evacuation preparations in Everton.”
Trevn pushed aside the excitement of exploring and tried to think through the consequences of joining such a group. How could he be certain the duke and his associates weren’t as mad as the Athosian doomsayers? “Where is this Prophet? Father Tomek said there were no true prophets left in Armania.” He shook the scroll. “This says The Prophet will not be of our people. A Sarikarian prophet?”
“My father believed The Prophet would not be from any of the Five Realms. There are verses to corroborate his theory in the Book of Arman. I can list them for you.”
Trevn vaguely recalled transcribing something about a prophet. “I would appreciate that. But if this Prophet is from outside the Five Realms, how will we know him when he comes?”
“Father said we would know when we heard The Prophet speak.”
As Trevn pondered the vagueness of such a statement, the house shook. An earthquake. A small one.
“Well, I hope he speaks soon,” Trevn said, “because we are running out of time.”
He bid the duke farewell and made his way with Cadoc through the house to the exit. As they walked down the hallway, Trevn’s gaze caught on a portrait on the wall. He stopped.
Portraits hung side by side all the way down both sides of the hallway. There was one of the duke, one of Lady Brisa, one of her sister Trista, and on and on, but these held no interest for him.
“Fetch His Grace at once,” Trevn told Cadoc.
Cadoc and the duke appeared moments later, the duke slightly out of breath. “What is it, Your Highness?”
Trevn pointed to the portrait on the wall. “Who is that man?”
The duke glanced at the portrait, then Trevn, and squinted in confusion. “That is Prince Mergest III of Sarikar. It was painted when he was about your age, I believe. King Ormarr sent away all the paintings of his eldest son where he would not have to see them. King Jorger did not ask for them back.”
“Prince Mergest . . .” Trevn stared at the portrait, chilled as the revelation came over him. The young man in the painting looked very much like Janek. They had the same ridged brow and piercing stare, the same cheekbones and condescending smirk. “That,” Trevn said, his voice wavering slightly, “is the Pontiff Barthel Rogedoth.”