The Lost City (The Lost Prophecy Book 5) Read online

  Jakob turned slowly, pushing out with his sense of ahmaean.

  He detected the presence again. He would know what it was, and whether it was the nemerahl as he suspected, or whether it was something else. If it was the nemerahl, then he would speak to the creature. If something else, then he was about to discover what else the daneamiin hid in their city. He had the sense that there were things the daneamiin kept from him, especially now that he had revealed himself as damahne.

  He continued to push out with his ahmaean, sending it with an increasingly powerful sweep away from him. There was some resistance against it, but not where he suspected.

  Jakob had expected the resistance to have been deeper in the forest, but that wasn’t where it was at all. Instead, it came from within the pool itself.

  He peeled off the layers of clothes that he wore, the cloak, then they clothes beneath it. Once undressed, he stepped toward the pool. When he reached the water, he hesitated. Jakob had swum here before and had spent time in the pool, bathing, but there was something different this time, something that he could feel, as if his ahmaean wanted him to know that something was different.

  The water tingled as it touched his skin, washing over him in a cool wave.

  Ahmaean filled him, power that came from the pool of water itself.

  He stepped forward, sliding through the water, and reached a point where it began to climb over his stomach, then his chest. Jakob remained in place when it reached his neck, then his face. Taking a deep breath, he submerged himself. The water surrounded him, and the tingling remained along the surface of his skin.

  He floated, enjoying the sense of the ahmaean around him, that sense of power that emanated from him, but also came from the forest, feeding into the lake. Now that he was here, and now that he was submerged as he was, he was fully aware of how that power coalesced here.

  He had thought it was the house of the Cala maah, the center of the daneamiin city, but maybe that wasn’t the case. Maybe the water—life-giving water—was the heart of the people.

  If that were the case, why would they have allowed him to bathe in this pool?

  Using the connection to the ahmaean within the water, he could feel other connections throughout the forest. There was that which came from the trees and the grasses, a powerful, pure and persistent sense. There was a weaker sense from the small creatures of the forest. Some that slithered or crawled along the ground, some that climbed along branches, or perched waiting for flight. And then there was the sense of ahmaean from the daneamiin, an enormous sensation, one filled with their impressive control over it, but it was not the brightest ahmaean that he detected.

  That was near him.

  Nemerahl.

  Jakob said the word in his mind, calling out to the creature. Unlike the previous times he’d encountered it, this time, he was not surprised. He knew that it was there, even if he could not see it.

  A chuckling came from deep within his mind.

  I know that you are there. Reveal yourself.

  The chuckling continued.

  Jakob swam forward, gliding through the water. Warmth enveloped him, but it was more than just the warmth of the water, it was a physical warmth that came from his connection to the ahmaean, and to the power presence within the forest.

  This was the ahmaean of the daneamiin. Jakob was fully aware of that, and fully aware that it was different from his connection to the ahmaean within the Great Forest. There, he could detect great strength, but a different connection from that which he had within the daneamiin forest.

  Nemerahl.

  He said it again, pressing out with his ahmaean, thinking back to the memories that Jakob had experienced when visiting Shoren, or Aimielen, or Gareth or even Lara.

  They would’ve had an understanding of the nemerahl. What secrets could he learn from them?

  When he had visited Shoren, he had been more concerned about understanding the fibers, and less concerned about understanding the connection to the nemerahl. When he had visited Gareth, the damahne had told Jakob that he should have bonded to a nemerahl by now. According to Gareth, all damahne bonded to nemerahl. Jakob had not encountered one often enough to have bonded to it and didn’t know what it meant for him to bond to one.

  Nemerahl.

  He said it a third time, this time pushing out with his ahmaean, before pulling it inward, focusing on the word, and on where he had felt—and heard—the chuckling in his mind.

  As he did, something in his mind shifted.

  It was similar to when he shifted, the way that he was one place, and then another. In this case, when he shifted, when he detected the change within his mind, there was a greater sense of awareness.

  The chuckling faded, but it was there, present in his mind.

  Nemerahl.

  He had found the creature, though Jakob didn’t know what that meant, or why he should have finally found it.

  You are slow.

  The voice was deep and resonated in his mind. It matched the heavy laughter that he’d heard, and carried with it a hint of age, and of power.

  Slow? Was I supposed to have found you sooner?

  Awareness of the nemerahl swirled around him. I have revealed myself to you many times, yet only now you find me?

  Maybe the fibers were not ready for me to find you before now.

  The nemerahl chuckled. You are barely damahne, and you claim understanding of the fibers?

  What do you mean that I am barely damahne? Alyta said that she awoke my damahne connection when she was dying and passed on her power to me.

  Yes. I was aware of that as well.

  Then how can I be barely damahne?

  You have known your powers for only a brief time. That is what makes you barely damahne.

  I’m trying to understand them.

  By fumbling along the fibers.

  My fumbling sealed Raime out of the fibers. I repaired the darkness—and the damage—that he attempted to cause.

  Hmm. Perhaps you aren’t quite as fumbling as I claim. That doesn’t change that you are little more than a child grasping at great power.

  Jakob didn’t know whether to be upset or to agree with the nemerahl. There were times he did feel like nothing more than a child who fumbled at power. He wanted to understand, and he wanted to find some way of gaining better control of what he was capable of doing, but doing so required that he step back and borrow from the knowledge of those who preceded him. It was easier—and faster—to understand his potential that way than attempting to read the countless books found within the damahne libraries.

  That study was better suited to Novan. The historian remained within the library of the Great Forest, studying the books stored there for countless years. What might Novan have discovered? Maybe that was where Jakob needed to go for answers.

  Help me understand what I am capable of doing with my powers. Help me understand what it means for me to be damahne.

  That is not my responsibility.

  But you are nemerahl. Aren’t we supposed to bond?

  The nemerahl growled within his mind. It was a rough and hoarse sound and filled with power. Had the nemerahl been standing in front of him, Jakob imagined that he would have jerked away from the creature and that he would have attempted to hide.

  We are supposed to do nothing. The bond has served both races for many years. Do not presume to tell me what is meant to happen.

  I’m sorry. I don’t mean to upset you. I’m ignorant to what it means to be damahne.

  Yes. That much is clear.

  Then help me. Show me what it means, and what I can do.

  If the nemerahl agreed, Jakob might finally have a way of understanding exactly what it was that he could do and might understand why the damahne who came before him had avoided conflict. Gareth had spoken of the seal, but Jakob didn’t fully understand it.

  He could travel back to Gareth and question his ancestor, but the answers he could obtain there would be limited. They would be noth
ing like what the nemerahl could provide. If the nemerahl was willing, Jakob thought he could finally get answers.

  That is not the role of the nemerahl.

  He had a sense that he was pushed away, and he floated backward, away from the nemerahl. Would he lose the connection to the nemerahl? Had he missed out on his opportunity?

  Please, Jakob begged. Help me.

  Help? You still fumble, when you should shine with strength. When—and if—you gain understanding of what it means to be damahne, and when you gain understanding of the bond, perhaps then I will speak more.

  With that, the sense of the nemerahl faded, then finally disappeared, as did the tingling on his skin, and Jakob was left with nothing more than a sense of the water. There remained a connection to the ahmaean there, but it was not what it had been when the nemerahl had remained within the pool.

  Jakob emerged from the water, and looked around, searching for sign of the creature, but none came.

  The nemerahl was gone.

  His ignorance had angered it.

  He should have been more careful, or perhaps he should have been better prepared.

  He sighed to himself. Other than continuing to step back into the past, to walk along the fibers, how else would he learn what he needed to know? How else would he discover the bond that he was told by another damahne he needed to have?

  Jakob wanted—needed—answers.

  And there was only one who might be able to help him.

  Chapter Seven

  The city was chaotic. Brohmin had last been to Polle Pal nearly two decades ago, and in that time, much changed. The harbor remained a vibrant and busy port, a place where trade made its way from the north to the south before heading back again. From here, most ships stopped in Gomald, rather than traveling farther to the east. While Gomald had remained the primary port to the north, Polle Pal had ceded some of that in the south to East Harbor and Golport. It brought in much less trade, and therefore, much less money.

  It was an old city, with narrow streets rimmed by tall buildings with little space in between them. Most were two to three stories tall, keeping most of the daylight from reaching the street below. The few carts and wagons that attempted to navigate through the city were impeded by the sheer number of people. The air had a distinctive stink to it, one of refuse and waste, that permeated everything. Even the salt of the sea didn’t overwhelm that stench.

  The thick band of storm clouds still hovered over the city, thunder rumbling steadily, but so far, there had been no rain. It was coming; Brohmin could feel it deep within him, a throbbing ache that told him it would soon rain. He didn’t need to be a Mage prophet to know that, and he didn’t need to have the abilities of the damahne to peer along the fibers to know it would soon be here.

  “We should find a place to stay for the night,” he suggested.

  Salindra looked around, her brow furrowed, and her lips pressed tightly together. “Are you sure this is safe?”

  Brohmin chuckled. “Not all cities look like your Vasha.”

  “Vasha has its dangerous sections,” she said.

  “Vasha is protected by the Denraen. There is only so much danger that can happen when you have the greatest soldiers in the world watching over your city. Besides, Vasha still observes the Urmahne faith.”

  He pointed down the street, where three men faced a fourth. The fourth man had a knife, and held it out from him, jabbing at the others, but he was outnumbered, and the other three took advantage of that. When he turned toward one man, another leaned in and struck him, catching his shoulder, or his back, or once, the side of his head. The men were accustomed to fighting together. Though they might not be soldiers, they were coordinated in their efforts.

  “We should stop that,” Salindra said, starting forward.

  Brohmin grabbed her wrist. “How many fights do you think you can stop in Polle Pal?”

  Salindra tensed, and strained against him for a moment, but didn’t pull away. Eventually, she relaxed, but never took her eyes off the fight. It was over quickly. The three men easily out-muscling the fourth, who collapsed to the ground, where the others took turns kicking him.

  She turned away, the disgusted look on her face telling him everything he needed to know about how she felt about the fight.

  “You’ve seen worse,” he said.

  “I’ve seen worse because we faced monsters.”

  “You’ll need to be careful about calling them that here.”

  She glanced over at him. “The groeliin?” she asked in a hushed voice.

  “Well, them, too. But we must be careful with how we reference the Deshmahne in these lands. You will find that they are viewed much differently here than in the north.”

  “How could they have been allowed to grow so powerful?”

  “People needed leadership. The priests were only willing to do so much, and when they weren’t willing to do more, and when the Magi weren’t willing to step in, the Deshmahne found a place.”

  “You know as well as I do why the Magi remained isolated.”

  “I know the reason, but that doesn’t mean I agree with it. The absence the Magi power created a void that the Deshmahne were able to fill, allowing them to grow in power and influence. If nothing else, this war will hopefully have shown the Magi the error of ignoring such threats.”

  She cocked her head and looked at him askance. People pushed past them along the street, and they remained motionless, letting the crowd move around them. Another peal of thunder sounded, this time shaking the ground, rattling the buildings. Lightning flashed in the distance, but still, rain did not come.

  “I doubt the Council will choose to take any new action based on the Deshmahne,” Salindra said.

  Brohmin hoped that it would be different. When he had met with King Allay, he had the sense that something had changed. He wasn’t certain yet quite what, and hadn’t remained in Gomald long enough to discover, but the King had suggested that something was changing.

  “We can only hope,” he said.

  Thunder rumbled again, this time even louder. The crowd on the street started to thin as people found shelter from the impending storm. The beaten man lay unmoving, and Brohmin made his way toward him.

  “I thought you said we should find a place to rest for the night.”

  Brohmin ignored her as he knelt in front of the man. He had pale skin and reddish hair, the kind not often found in these lands. Brohmin also noted the man was dressed strangely for Polle Pal. They favored simple, dark colors, with displays of wealth shown by the design and color of the embroidery used along their sleeves and collars. This man was dressed in a dark brown robe and had the short hair that was more common in the priesthood. There should be no Urmahne priests this far south.

  “What is it?” Salindra asked.

  “This man shouldn’t be here.”

  “I thought you didn’t think we should get involved. Didn’t you say that when I tried to intervene?”

  “I might have made a mistake,” he said.

  She smiled. “What was that? I’m not sure that I could hear you.”

  Brohmin looked up at her. The wind was whipping her dark hair, sending it in a fluttering spiral around her neck. “I said, it might have been a mistake.” Brohmin stood and took a deep breath as he studied the man lying on the ground. “Might.”

  Something about this man troubled him. Maybe it was nothing, but maybe he was a priest, and if there was a priest foolish enough to come to these lands, a place known to have converted to the Deshmahne, he couldn’t simply leave the man lying here.

  With a sigh, Brohmin leaned over and scooped the man off the ground, flipping him over his shoulder as he carried him along the street. Salindra hurried to catch up, and when she reached him, she shot him a curious expression.

  “This looks to be more than you simply making up for a mistake.”

  “I’m not sure what it is. Maybe the fibers brought us to him.”

  Salindra laughed. She s
eemed to do that more and more often these days. “You had better be careful, Brohmin. You’re starting to sound an awful lot like you’re more faithful than you would like others to believe.”

  Brohmin grunted. Thunder rumbled again, reminding him of the increasing ache in his joints. Was the pain worse than before? It seemed almost as if it was. Maybe it was nothing more than the rain, and the coming storm, but maybe it was something else. If he had utilized the connection to the ahmaean too much, and if that meant that his strength, in general, was fading, then maybe Alyta wasn’t the only long-lived being whose remaining time on Earth was short.

  “My belief in the fibers is different from your belief in nameless gods. The fibers are real. I have sat among the Cala maah, and I have seen backward, tracing my connections. I have little doubt that those connections trace forward as well.”

  Salindra eyed him strangely. “Yet your belief in the fibers is based on your experience, and what you’ve observed. How is that so different from what everyone else has observed, and their belief in the Urmahne faith? Anyone can see the Tower. To them, that is as impressive as an ability to peer along the fibers.”

  Brohmin stopped in front of an inn. Had he not been here before, he wouldn’t have identified it. There was a small sign, but it was set in the stone building itself, a marker that identified it as a place of rest for travelers. It wasn’t a place that he’d ever visited, but then again, when he had been in Polle Pal in the past, there had been other places for him to stay. He hadn’t hesitated to take advantage of the hospitality of the priesthood, or of the Historian Guild. Strange that neither was present here now.

  Unlike in Gomald, or even in Vasha, there was no tavern attached. Many places in the south lands were different from those in the north. Brohmin opened the door and ducked inside, lowering himself to ensure the man on his shoulder cleared the door. He turned and beckoned Salindra to follow, then pushed the door closed behind them just as the first few drops of rain began to fall. It wasn’t long before the rain intensified, coming down in a steady drumming that quickly became a sheeting rain.