The Prophet's Apprentice (Chronicles of the Chosen) by Cassandra Boyson

Author:Cassandra Boyson [Boyson, Cassandra]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kingdom House Press
Published: 2018-05-06T22:00:00+00:00

- S I X T E E N -

Cellar of Peculiarities

“SO, DO I CALL YOU Latos now?” Wynn asked once she and the prophet had transported safely back to Kierelia, though not within the comfort of their beloved cabin.

He allowed a moment of silence before, “Latos… is no longer me. We are so far apart in time, so different. I… don’t like to remember him. Even ancient men have their regrets, but the Great One works his miracles.”

“I see.” She searched for an avenue to draw his mind from the past. “Well… where are we now?” Wind washed around her as she turned about. Her stomach dropped. “Surely not…” she whispered.

He glanced at her sidelong.

“This is a d-despicable place,” she protested, “full of criminals and delinquents.”

“Aye… but if it is where the Great One is, it is where we must be.”

Her mind raced. “Why don’t you go along… while I wait here.”

“My dear Wynnie,” he said, stepping directly before her. “Is there something you wish to tell me?”

She sighed shakily, understanding he was fully aware. He merely desired her to speak it aloud. “It is where I grew up. I swore I’d never return.”

He squinted as he studied her, then tenderly spoke, “If it is where the Great One wants us… should we not go, no matter how uncomfortable it may be?”

She swallowed. “I suppose the Great One told you he specifically wished me to go?”

He nodded.

Releasing a breath, she relented. “Very well.”

He started forward. But when they reached what was popularly considered the threshold of the town, he froze, his walking rake held in midair.

She searched his face. Contrary to the norm, it was fixated and penetrating. “What are we—?”

He placed the rake upon the ground.

A pulse shot forth through the town. Clouds toiled and gathered overhead, darkening. Finally, they released their might in a great strike of lightning not far from where the two stood.

Wynn leaped involuntarily and searched the prophet’s face for fear. Finding none, she drew close behind him, letting his courage shield her from the next three strikes. Every one missed.

“Why can’t it hit us?” she squealed.

“We are protected.”

With his words, the clouds receded and the sky grew clear once more.

With a relieved sigh, she followed him into the hamlet. It was unaltered except for a single building now missing: the inn. The shops were as she had left them and the villagers glared at the newcomers as was customary. But contrary to convention, those they passed began to follow them. She considered whether it was with ill intent but perceived it was curiosity which drove them. They had sensed an atmospheric shift when the prophet’s rake had pierced the ground. They wished to know who had brought it. Moreover, many might have witnessed the lightning strikes and likely believed she and the prophet had caused them with some kind of sorcery.

“Not that one, not that one, not that one,” the prophet muttered as they passed shop after shop.

“What are we looking for?” she inquired just as a grotesque cry was heard from a man who had stepped into the prophet’s shadow.

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