Page 53 of An Archer's Redemption

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice low. “Everyone expects you to move forward as if nothing happened, but so much of your world has changed. I don’t understand how you do it, how you hold it all together. You may be the strongest person I know.”

I turned and examined his eyes. There was such deep empathy and . . .something.

“I do not know, Keelan.” I reached down and cupped a fist-sized bloom. “Some days, I fear the seams will tear and I will fall apart. I just . . . take it one day at a time.”

A moment passed, then I turned, looked up at him, and placed a hand on his arm. “I do know one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“I feel better knowing you are here.”

Chapter 21

Danai

Isat in my high-backed throne on the dais of the ceremonial chamber of the Children’s Temple. Braziers blazed throughout the chamber, their magical flame snapping soundlessly in the cavernous hall. The marble statue of Irina had been returned from its perch above the Temple’s retracted roof and now rested in its original position, towering over the most sacred room in the building.

A dozen men in silky brown robes kneeled before me with their heads bowed.

Prophecies fell out of favor centuries ago when most religions were discarded in favor of loyalty to the earthly Crown, yet there were always pockets of people who yearned for communion within the unknowable, people who craved mystery and mysticism.

Neither truly answered their longing or questions.

Where men of learning saw veins in a leaf bearing water and nutrients, believers witnessed the flow of their deity’s lifeforce.In those men and women, in their open minds yearning to receive unfathomable truths, I knew my seed would bear fruit.

The Priests now crouched before my throne had spent the past month poring over ancient texts I had supposedly found deep in the mountains on the eastern border—at least that’s what I told the blind, robed fools.

At first, they had doubted the faded words on the yellowed parchment represented more than the writings—ravings, really—of a deranged mountain hermit, but I urged them to dig deeper, to discern every meaning. I ordered them to find whether these documents held valuable truths or would be kindling for my hearth.

Buried within that holy script—just deeply enough to require some effort to uncover it—a prophecy foretold of the return of the One. The Priest who discovered the foretelling thought it odd. The text predicted the return of a false prophet would precede the true One.

I openly mocked them.

I tested and pressed when one or more would assert some divine meaning. I forced them to defend their positions, and in doing so, tocommitto their arguments.

Their resistance transformed views into tenets of a new faith.

The change in their work—and in their eyes as they watched me—was remarkable.

Their belief was palpable.

I could barely contain myself.

How was it possible for prophecy to be so clear, so direct?

Everything fit perfectly with the timeline of events occurring over the past year. It was almost as though I had written them myself—which, of course, I had.

It had taken weeks to mix ink in just the right proportions to saturate the page as was the custom centuries before. I struggledto perfect the spell that would age the parchment well enough to fool even the sharpest scholars, but I’d done it.

Now all I needed were followers willing to buy what I was selling.

I looked no further than Irina’s Children, the group I helped establish nearly ten centuries earlier. Their sole purpose had been to unravel the mysteries of the golden text on her monolith and carry out those instructions to bring about her return.

After Irina’s failure, the Children were lost and adrift.

They had labored a thousand years to return Irina, and she had failed them.

It was a simple thing to turn their blind adoration for her toward a new scion of faith.

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