A Prophecy Forgotten
Prologue

Gabriella felt something damp run across her forehead. She opened her eyes, but saw nothing more than a blur. She blinked until she began to see clearly. She was lying on a bed in a wood-paneled room, and a soldier wearing the bronze breastplate of the Reconnaissance Sabotage Order perched next to her. Gabriella tried to ignore the pounding in her head as she wondered what a soldier of the elite RSO division was doing at her bedside. The soldier’s face finally came into focus. He was rugged and half-shaven with unkempt brown hair, and his chestnut colored wings lay folded at his back. His sea-green eyes stared at her intently as he wiped her forehead with a damp rag. Gabriella caught her breath. He was Major Davian, one of the Elysian military’s most respected and feared warriors. She tried to sit up and cross her fist to her chest in salute.

“No, no, lay down, soldier,” Davian said. He laid her back on the bed. “No need for that here. What happened out there?”

“Where?”

“When you flew into the Hover Run.”

“I did what?”

Davian frowned. “You don’t remember flying into the Hover Run?”

“No, sir.”

“You flew into there like a scab was chasing you, and another cherubian followed you in.” Davian sighed. “When you flew out, you lost your balance and ended up destroying the nectar reservoir.”

Gabriella gulped. “Destroy…ing? The nectar reservoir?”

Davian nodded. “The City of Ezzer lost its entire store of nectar. That’s going hurt our honeywine production for the next two months until the sprites can replenish it. And Maurice has officially barred you from the Treetop Inn for life. And Seraph Zephor is ready to kick you out of the military. You know how much Zephor loves his honeywine.”

“Me?”

Davian nodded again.

“Are you sure it wasn’t someone else?”

Davian frowned and wiped a few strands of hair off Gabriella’s forehead. His hand lingered as he stared at her with what Gabriella interpreted to be pity. “It was you. I’m the one who carried you here after you fainted.”

Gabriella groaned, shocked that she would ever enter the Hover Run, which was reserved for the Elysian military’s most elite, and embarrassed that Davian, of all soldiers, had witnessed such a horrible stunt. “But I’m just a guard. Why would I even enter the Hover Run?”

“That’s what the rest of us are wondering. Unfortunately, quite a few officers think you did it as a stunt to get yourself noticed, but—”

Gabriella sat up determined to keep Davian from thinking of her as a show-off. “Sir, you have to believe me. I would never try the Hover Run without permission. I swear—I—”

“I believe you, soldier.” Davian placed his hands on Gabriella’s shoulders and laid her back down. “I’ve watched you enough in training. You wouldn’t have flown in there on your own accord. Not without good reason.” At this, Davian’s eyes narrowed. “I swear I thought I saw someone chase you in. If you tell me what happened, I’ll try to ease things up with the seraph a bit.”

“But I can’t remember.”

“Try.”

Gabriella closed her eyes and thought. “I’m sorry, sir, but I can only remember up to the graduation ceremony. Then all of us headed to the Treetop. I realized I forgot my helmet, so I flew back to get it. That’s all I remember.”

“Well, I wish you had put it on before you—wait a minute.” The major bent down and picked up a syringe off the floor just as a healer walked in. “Kera, has this patient received any injections from your staff?”

“No, Major.”

Davian showed Kera the syringe. “Then why is this here?”

“That was left from the last patient.” Kera reached for the syringe.

Davian pulled it away. “I’d like to keep it.”

“Major, the last patient had the pox. You don’t want it to spread. Please give it to me.”

Kera’s new tone surprised both Gabriella and Davian. Davian opened the syringe and tasted a drop of the medicine still inside. He spit it out and narrowed his eyes. He stared back and forth from Gabriella to Kera, then out the window and at the door.

He smiled and gave the syringe to Kera. “Of course. Just make sure your staff cleans up better next time.”

“Yes, sir,” said Kera as she began straightening up in the room.

“Kera, could I have a couple more minutes alone with this patient?” he asked.

Kera frowned. “Yes, sir,” she said. She crossed her fist across her chest in salute and exited.

Davian’s fingers ran across Gabriella’s neck and down both of her arms. He sat her up and inspected the base of her wings. His hands combed through her wing feathers, tickling her and making her bite her lip to keep from laughing. Suddenly, Davian’s fingers lingered on a particular spot near her lower wing-base. He huffed, but to Gabriella, it sounded almost like a growl. He turned Gabriella around and stared into her eyes. “Look left for me.”

Gabriella looked left.

“Now look right.”

Gabriella looked right.

Davian laid her back down. “Soldier, someone gave you a dose of memory serum. It’s a top-secret potion we’ve been experimenting with. It’s only in testing stages right now. Obviously you learned something you weren’t supposed to learn. And if my suspicions are correct, you knew that as well, so you took off.” He looked into Gabriella’s eyes again and frowned. “Unfortunately, any information regarding the incident won’t be coming from you. Where did you go to retrieve your helmet?”

“The shower-house, sir.”

“I’ll check it out and see what I can find. In the meantime, stay here and do whatever the healers tell you. If anyone asks you what happened, tell them the truth: that you don’t remember and your head hurts.”

“Yes, sir.”

Davian smiled at her and turned to leave. “I’ll talk to Zephor and make sure you get a premium assignment on Earth, but until I find out more information on this, I’m afraid it will have to stay between you and me.”

She nodded.

Before he left, he added one more thing. “You may want to keep that helmet of yours on at all times for a good ten to twelve years. We don’t know much about the side effects of this memory serum. Another good hit to the head like that might wipe out your entire memory.”

Chapter One: A Message of Hope

Seven Years Later…

Arch-Seraph Zephor clasped his hands behind his back and paced back and forth along the wall that surrounded the Southern Command Tower. The black leather trim on his grey seraph’s kilt swished just above his knees. His black boots, by design, made no sound. Zephor ignored both the icy wind that rustled through his brown wings and the annoying sprite that kept singing in his ear. As he stared at the gloomy, endless sea of fog that surrounded the tower, the creases around his brown eyes deepened, and he wrinkled his nose. The fog hid the southern front’s charred, leafless trees and scorched grass, but it still failed to block out the territory’s smoky stench.

Zephor continued pacing around the wall, where soldiers wearing the maroon and black kilts of the Elysian army guarded the tower with their bows readied. Their black breastplates and helmets bore numerous dents and scratches from recent battles. Notched swords hung at their sides; mud caked their boots, legs, and arms; and their shoulders hunched from weariness. Normally, Zephor would have complained about the lack of supplies and weapons and demanded to know why his country refused to send him reinforcements. Instead, he continued to pace, and his thoughts rested, not with his army or even the war, but on a conversation he had seven years ago with his top soldier, Major Davian.

Zephor had bumped into Davian outside the Treetop Inn the night before the major was to leave on a six-month mission. Davian ignored the bump. Instead he stared at the sky, and his lips moved in a bare whisper as though he was repeating something from memory.

“Clear night,” Zephor said.

Davian barely nodded and continued to stare at the sky. “No moon tonight, sir.”

“Ah! A new moon.”

Davian said nothing.

“So is that bad luck, Major?” continued Zephor, “leaving on a mission under a new moon, or is something else—?”

“How many stars are in Capral’s horn, Seraph?”

“What? I don’t know. Four? Five? What’s wrong, Davian?”

“Four. There have always been four.” Davian pointed to the constellation of Capral, the great unicorn seer. “Tonight I see five.”

“Looks like you’ve discovered a new star, then. Maybe the scribes will let you name it.”

“You wouldn’t approve of the name I’d pick, Seraph.”

Zephor frowned. “How about ‘Fallen Nectar Reservoir,’ instead?”

Davian stiffened and narrowed his eyes. “Someone chased her in there, Seraph.”

“Maybe. But let’s not argue about that anymore. Shouldn’t have brought it up.” Zephor stared at the new star on the tip of Capral’s horn. “So do you want to tell me how a new moon and a new star have managed to distract you this much?”

“I was just thinking, Seraph. Do you remember in the Runes, where it says, ‘When Capral’s horn stretches toward the waning moon’…?”

The feathers in Zephor’s wings stood straight up and goose bumps ran down his arms and legs. “The prophecy?” he whispered.

“That’s what I’m thinking, sir.”

“I’ll alert the scribes immediately.”

For the past seven years the scribes had told Zephor only that they were still searching—that is, until a week ago when they sent Zephor a hawk with a slip of paper in its talons that said: Send a herald immediately. Zephor’s most trusted herald, Alexor, had volunteered for the two day journey, and now Zephor could only pace back and forth and wait for Alexor to return. But Alexor was bringing him the answer through the worst part of the southern front. The track was dangerous, and Alexor was already two days late.

Zephor finally stopped pacing. He heaved a long, heavy sigh, shook his head, and closed his eyes. He and his people, cherubians of Elysia, had waited over 7,000 years for an answer to the prophecy. Zephor—and many other cherubians, for that matter—did not want to wait much longer.

Zephor resumed his pacing and continued to ignore the tiny sprite dressed in a pale blue tunic that kept chattering about flowers and pollen as it flew around his head. Finally, the sprite glared at Zephor, landed on his shoulder, and focused its high pitched babble in his ear.

Zephor glanced again at the southern front. He extended his wings, which were shaped like a falcon’s and measured twice the length of his body, and flew to the ground, where he continued pacing.

The sprite’s thumbnail-sized face turned red as it flew after Zephor. It began twirling around him like a floating gyroscope, all the while glancing at the old seraph to see if it caught his attention. Finally, the sprite wrinkled its nose and began singing an old cherubian tavern song off key.

The foul notes sent an involuntary shiver down Zephor’s spine. His hand shot up and snatched the sprite out of the air. He pulled it close to his nose and gave it a glare that only a few unlucky soldiers had ever seen. The sprite turned white, and its wings drooped. Zephor marched to a table, grabbed an empty honeywine mug, and turned it over, trapping the sprite inside.

He continued his pacing until a watchman yelled, “Rider approaching!”

Zephor flew to the top of the Southern Command Tower and grabbed his spyglass. He focused it on the form that galloped through the fog, attempting to identify the rider. A unicorn, yes. A herald, yes. But was it Alexor? After a few moments, Alexor’s face finally came into focus. Zephor sighed again—this time a sigh of renewed hope. He stored his spyglass and dropped to the ground to meet his herald.

Zephor’s newfound excitement dwindled as they galloped toward the tower’s gates. Blood striped the unicorn’s white coat, and Alexor, who usually rode tall and proud, shook back and forth like a rag doll with the unicorn’s every step. The unicorn collapsed just as they reached the gates, and the gangly herald tumbled off his back.

Zephor raced to them and cried out, “Get me a healer!”

He knelt next to Alexor and examined his herald’s torn, tattered legs. Zephor reached for the arrow that protruded from Alexor’s shoulder—then jerked his hand away.

“Quickly!” he commanded.

The arrow was made of poisonwood, a lethal material used by Elysia’s enemies, the mornachts. Morvenian poisonwood was so venomous that a mere graze of the arrow’s shaft would have burnt Zephor’s hand. Few cherubians ever lived from such wounds.

Alexor struggled to lift his right hand and finally crossed his fist over his chest in salute. “Seraph,” he panted. “The message… From the scribes.” Alexor pulled a smooth, bronze cylinder out of his pocket and handed it to Zephor as he drew one final breath and closed his eyes forever.

Zephor’s face remained emotionless as he grasped the message, but his white knuckles and clenched jaw betrayed his anger. Alexor was the son he never had. Zephor had taken him into his service over ninety years ago when he rescued the boy from a mornacht raid that killed both of his parents—the same raid that killed Zephor’s wife, a raid he had forced himself to forget. Zephor shook his head and wondered how many more young boys like Alexor would have to die before the war ended. He crossed his own fist over his chest in a final salute to his herald just as the healer and two assistants arrived.

“Well done, my good and faithful servant,” Zephor said. “Godspeed and safe journey.”

“Godspeed and safe journey,” repeated the healer and his assistants.

As Zephor watched the healers cart Alexor’s body away, the horrors he had witnessed during his 642 years of service flooded his thoughts. His chin fell to his chest. He closed his eyes for a moment, then lifted his head, looked at the sky, and silently asked, “Are you there?”

He looked back at the ground and shook his head.

It was then he remembered the scribes’ message. He reached under his breastplate and pulled out a small crystal barely the size of his fifth finger attached to a chain that hung around his neck. He tapped the crystal against the cylinder’s clasp, and it popped open, revealing a scroll tied with a moss green ribbon. Zephor unrolled the scroll and scanned its message. When finished, he pocketed the scroll, flew to the top of the command tower, and blew three short blasts on his horn. After returning to the wall he waited for the answer to his summons.

He did not wait long.

Within minutes three unicorns galloped to the Southern Command Tower. Running with precision, they sounding almost as one, and their white coats made them look like ghosts in the fog. A gold medallion hung on the middle unicorn’s neck. It was the Medallion of Wisdom, a gift from the great cherubian king, Ezzer, to Azernoth, the ancient king of the unicorns. Zephor raised his eyebrows. Azernoth would never answer a simple summons, and he wondered what brought the king himself to the Southern Command Tower.

Zephor heard many of the soldiers around him catch their breath as the unicorns rode through the gates. He knew that most of them had never seen Azernoth, and they gaped as he stood before them—a stern, fearsome, kingly beast with cloaked power and infinite wisdom. As Zephor flew to greet Azernoth, he remembered the awe he first felt in the king’s presence. He felt the same awe even now, despite the numerous battles they both had commanded alongside one another.

Zephor crossed his fist over his chest and knelt. “I wasn’t expecting such a royal answer to my summons, your majesty.”

“Cassadern insisted we answer you,” said Azernoth with a nod to Cassadern, the unicorn who stood to his left. “He said your summons was urgent—and of utmost importance to both our races.”

“Did he?” Zephor narrowed his eyes.

Cassadern always seemed to know things he should never have known and guess things he should never have guessed. Zephor suspected Cassadern had already guessed much of Alexor’s message, and that made him nervous. He preferred to keep all information, even information as routine as who had afternoon watch on Wednesday, closely guarded. This message was much too important to share with anyone, even allies as trusted as the unicorns, and Zephor hoped Cassadern would keep his guesses to himself.

“I need one of you to bear me to the City of Ezzer, your majesty,” he said to Azernoth. “Unfortunately, we’re too close to the southern front to risk flight, even in this fog.”

A unicorn’s loud neigh pierced the air before Azernoth could answer. The king looked to Zephor for an explanation.

“Jeleth, your majesty,” explained Zephor. “Mornachts attacked him and my herald.”

“That explains why Jeleth has been missing for two days. Wandor,” he said to the other unicorn with him, “see what you can do.”

The unicorn to Azernoth’s right immediately joined the healers as Azernoth turned back to Zephor. “How is your herald?”

Zephor laid his hand on Azernoth’s neck and bowed his head. “Alexor has gone to be with his father and mother.”

“I sense pain in you, Seraph—enough pain to reduce most of your race to tears. You hide it well. Very well.”

“Obviously not from your race, your majesty.”

“I can help, Seraph.”

Azernoth touched Zephor’s forehead with his horn, and the old seraph felt his anger and pain rise up though his body and out of his forehead.

Azernoth shook his head. “Too much anger, Zephor. Sometimes I think you cherubians are much too emotional creatures for war.”

“Emotion produces the very things that win wars, your majesty. Things such as hope and valor.”

“Perhaps, but it also produces things that lose wars: hatred, treason, revenge… Your race’s ability to feel gives you both the bad and the good. You will never separate the two.”

Zephor patted Azernoth’s mane. “I’ll take the bad so I can experience the good.”

Azernoth cocked his head. “That’s funny. Interesting. Do that again.”

Zephor rested his hand on Azernoth’s back, and the king closed his eyes. “I feel something that I haven’t felt in you in a long time.” He nuzzled Zephor’s arm. “Hope. Strange. You were never the type to hope, yet I can feel a trace of it in you now—even after the loss of your beloved herald. Why would that be?”

Cassadern neighed something in the unicorn-tongue to the king. Azernoth neighed back, but before he could say anything to Zephor, Wandor returned.

“Jeleth will make it, your majesty,” he said. “He’ll scar more than usual, but he’ll survive.”

“I wish we cherubians could heal ourselves as well as you unicorns,” muttered Zephor.

“Such a gift is too dangerous for a race as proud as yours,” said Azernoth. “And I don’t think any of you would enjoy having a long horn sticking out your forehead.” Azernoth was referring to the healing powers of a unicorn’s horn, which were so great that an enemy could usually only kill a unicorn through crushing, drowning, or burning—unless he hacked off the unicorn’s horn first.

Azernoth glanced at the sky. “Your time is growing short, my friend. I will personally bear you to the City of Ezzer.”

Zephor had not expected such an offer, and he bowed his head in gratitude. “I’m honored, your majesty.”

“No, the honor is mine, Zephor.”

Zephor wondered what sparked such a reply as he mounted the back of the unicorn king. He crossed his fist over his chest in salute to his troops and raised his sword high. “I ride to the City of Ezzer with a message of hope we haven’t had since the peaceful days of Edenian!” he announced. “Wish me Godspeed, for peace may soon be at hand!”

The soldiers saluted and shouted, “Godspeed and safe journey!” in unison.

Azernoth neighed loudly, reared his head, and took off. Zephor steered him toward the table, pulled out his sword, and knocked over the mug, setting the sprite free just before Azernoth carried him off into the fog.

“Keep to the west,” Zephor said as they rode. “We just took control of the southern portals to our east, but the mornachts are mounting forces to take them back.” Portals linked Heaven’s Realm, the dimension where cherubians and other enchanted creatures lived, to Earth, and mornachts wanted anything that made their access to Earth easier.

“Your forces at the command tower won’t be enough to hold the mornachts back, Zephor,” said Azernoth.

“Something I intend to mention to the High Seraph when I see him.”

They galloped through the fog in silence for a while until every part of Zephor’s uniform felt damp and beads of dew dripped off his helmet onto his nose. Suddenly, Zephor pointed into the fog at a vague shadow that stretched across the path.

“What’s that ahead?” he asked Azernoth.

“I’m not sure.”

Zephor pulled his sword, and Azernoth slowed to a trot until they stopped in front of two trees. The fog darkened beyond the trees—indicating a possible forest. Zephor looked up and watched the tree trunks disappear into the fog above. Elysian trees grew over 500 feet tall and twice as wide. Roots like stalactites fell from their lower branches all the way to the ground and eventually grew as thick as the tree trunks themselves. The leaves of Elysian trees were large enough to shelter at least two cherubians—or two mornachts, and both Zephor and Azernoth knew the dangers of galloping on a whim into a southern forest.

Azernoth raised his nose and sniffed. “Do you smell anything, Zephor?”

Mornachts smelled like a mixture of rotten garbage and burning sulfur, and cherubians and unicorns often sniffed the air before they entered unfamiliar territory.

Zephor sniffed. “Nothing, but the fog is heavy, and there’s no wind.”

Azernoth trotted to the closest tree and touched the trunk with his horn. He jumped back. “It’s not safe—”

An arrow whizzed by Azernoth’s head and narrowly missed Zephor’s arm. “Go! Go!” yelled Zephor. By the time the second go escaped his lips, Azernoth was already galloping away from the woods.

Another arrow whizzed by Zephor’s head. “We should lose them in the fog!” Zephor yelled. “Can you go any faster?”

“Hang on!”

Azernoth’s iridescent horn glowed red, and he tripled his speed. Soon the arrows stopped whizzing by, and the mornacht infested forest lay far behind them.

They ran until mid-afternoon. When the fog cleared, Zephor saw a huge forest on top of the hill ahead, the Forest of the City of Ezzer—the capital of Elysia. The forest stretched almost three miles, and a stone wall thirty feet thick and over 300 feet high surrounded it. Zephor squinted, barely able to make out the dim outline of a palace made of clear crystal that climbed out of the center of the forest up to the sky. It was the renowned Palace of Ezzer: a tree-palace made of quartz, so enormous that it took up three Elysian trees. The palace still amazed Zephor each time he saw it above the treetops—even today, when the clouds hid the sun and kept the palace from glistening.

Four heavily guarded entrances stood in each wall at the north, south, east, and west. The guards at the southern gate jumped to attention and crossed their fists over their chests as Zephor and Azernoth passed through.

The seraph and unicorn galloped between the trunks of the trees that supported the city’s homes and businesses. They sped past the Avitheater, a huge arena of over twenty-five trees that was home to all cherubian sporting events and fine arts performances. Rushing through the marketplace (which spanned over forty trees and offered every item of food, clothing, weaponry, and housewares available anywhere in Elysia) they passed the industrial wood where blacksmiths, goldsmiths, and all other types of smiths, millers, tanners, and other such tradesman worked. They sped through the square, so full of quartz statues of cherubian heroes and artisans it resembled a year round ice festival. Upon reaching the thirty-foot-high quartz wall that surrounded the trees supporting the Palace of Ezzer, Zephor dismounted.

“It was good to ride together once again,” he said to Azernoth. “Makes me almost feel young.”

“But you still feel weary.”

“I’ve felt like this before. It will pass.” He waited until after he spoke these words to pat Azernoth’s mane, thinking there was no need to let the king sense their hollow ring.

Azernoth gave Zephor a quick nuzzle, then put his mouth to Zephor’s ear and whispered, “Why, even now, when you have the answer you’ve awaited for so long, why do you still doubt?”

Before Zephor could reply, Azernoth neighed and sped away. Zephor watched Azernoth run away and wondered how much he and Cassadern knew. He pulled the scroll out of his breastplate and flew through the quartz gates into the palace gardens, which was located beneath the tree palace. During the summer, flowers of every shape and color—from pastel blues and pinks to bright yellows and oranges—bloomed on the bushes and vines that climbed the tree trunks and roots. Most of the flowers and leaves had gone into hiding, however, leaving only a few late fall blooms as decoration.

The Palace of Ezzer, which looked as though it was carved out of a gigantic block of ice, rested overhead in the tops of the trees. Its floor plan formed a ring that encircled the trees, and each interior balcony gazed down upon the palace courtyard. Quartz statues of Elysia’s greatest heroes and kings lined the courtyard’s perimeter. Zephor flew to the center of the courtyard and landed in front of the Statue of Ezzer, which stood over fifty feet tall. Ezzer’s right hand brandished a sword, and his left arm cradled a scroll, as though he was guarding the scroll itself.

The inscription on the foot of the statue read: In times of darkness, let faith be your guide. Let your hope never fail.

Zephor knelt in front of the statue and crossed his fist over his chest, then flew up into the tree palace. Inside, ornate carvings of unicorns, fauns, and nymphs ran up and down the quartz pillars and walls. The sun’s rays poured through the walls and reflected rainbows at every angle. Zephor ignored the beauty, even when he passed his favorite carving of a particularly exquisite nymph, and instead focused on the great, sapphire encrusted doors that led to the Command Chamber.

The two soldiers guarding the doors bowed and saluted as Zephor passed. He entered an immense hall full of yet more carved pillars supporting the vaulted ceiling. Though the ceiling was only twenty feet high near the doors, its pinnacle rose to almost a hundred feet at the end of the hall where a crystal throne sat on a dais.

The throne was empty.

The Command Chamber was once a throne room during the days when Ezzer and the kings after him ruled Elysia. Now that the days of kings had been replaced with the days of prime ministers, it served as the Elysian military’s central conference room. A crystal table that seated forty cherubians stood in the center of the room, and at the head of that table perched a regal cherubian with hair and a beard as white as a unicorn’s and the wisdom to match. This was High Seraph Octirius, a seraph so respected that none dared defame him.

Zephor knelt before him and saluted.

“You may rise, Zephor,” said Octirius, who often made his distaste for Elysian formalities well known.

Zephor took a seat on a perching stool. “I just received word from the scribes this afternoon. We’ve found him, Seraph! The human our divinations speak of. The one who will save Earth. The one whose coming will signal the beginning of peace in Elysia. We know where he is!”

Octirius stared at Zephor for a moment and raised his eyebrows. “Then the Runes have been fulfilled?”

Zephor nodded. “Indeed.”

Octirius’ aged face broke into a smile. “Excellent! Most excellent. Hold on. Let me summon Salla.” Octirius rose from his perching stool and whispered something to one of the guards outside the door.

A few moments later, a seraph with dark hair and large, dark eyes that made most women sigh flew inside. This was Zephor’s younger counterpart, Arch-Seraph Salla. Salla shed his charming smile the moment he saw Zephor, as he usually did. “Here to beg for more aid already, Zephor? I thought a skilled seraph like you—”

“You will leave both your disagreements outside of the Command Chamber, Salla.” ordered Octirius. He turned to Zephor, who had opened his mouth to retort. “Both includes you.”

Zephor shut his mouth and frowned.

Salla bowed to Octirius. “My apologies, sir.” He hopped on a perch across from Zephor, avoiding the elder seraph’s eyes. He turned to Octirius. “You summoned me?”

“Zephor tells me we have much to celebrate,” Octirius said. “We’ve found the child the Runes bade us look for.”

Salla looked back and forth between the two seraphs in disbelief. Then he smiled. “Truly, truly wonderful news. Are you sure?”

“The scribes are positive,” said Zephor. “One of them said he would bet his last scroll that this boy is the one.”

“That’s definitely a yes,” muttered Salla. “How much longer do you think we’ll have until this war finally ends?”

“Patience, Salla,” said Zephor. “He’s only seven.”

Salla frowned.

“Seven?” said Octirius. He stroked his beard. “Too young for battle, but old enough to learn. Does the enemy know of his existence?”

“No, sir.”

The High Seraph nodded. “Then we must do everything in our power to keep it that way. Which cherubians know of this human, Zephor?”

“None, sir, save the scribes and the three of us. His guard doesn’t even know.”

“Who is his guard?”

The mention of the boy’s guard turned the stoic seraph sour. “Neither of you are going to believe this,” Zephor said. “His guard is Gabriella.”

Salla burst into laughter. “One of your favorites, isn’t she, Zephor?”

Even Octirius chuckled. “Gabriella? Wasn’t she that spirited cadet who tried the Hover Run after graduation?”

Zephor refused to laugh or even chuckle. Elysia only allowed senior officers and members of the elite Reconnaissance and Sabotage Order (RSO) division of the military to attempt the Hover Run. The last guard to be granted permission was Davian over 200 years ago. That stubborn Gabriella decided to try right after she graduated. Her little stunt broke the nectar reservoir and left the City of Ezzer knee-deep in the sticky goo for a fortnight. The loss of nectar created a severe honeywine shortage for five moons.

“That’s the one,” Zephor said. “She’s one of the reasons I hurried as fast as I could to get here. We need to reassign her immediately before—”

“And what horrible mistake has she made that she deserves reassignment, my dear arch-seraph?” Octirius asked after he stopped chuckling. “Or are you still bitter over the honeywine shortage?”

Zephor huffed. “She doesn’t have the experience necessary to guard a human as important as—”

“Give the soldier some leeway, Zephor,” said Salla. “That was seven years ago, and if my memory hasn’t failed me, she almost did make the Hover Run.”

Octirius raised his hands to silence the two seraphs before they started one of their notorious arguments. “I think we shall leave Gabriella where she is. I don’t want to risk reassignment this late in the human’s life. It might damage him, and it could alert the mornachts to his importance. We don’t need all of Morvenia trying to assassinate him before he turns eight. And…” He stroked his beard. “I can’t explain it, but something tells me she may play a more important role in all this than any of us can even imagine.”

Zephor frowned. “Should I let her know about her charge, sir?”

“Not until we must. Salla, have Sephus place one of his hawks on the child, and alert me the moment it sees a mornacht in the vicinity. Otherwise, let time run its course until the boy is old enough.” Octirius tapped his fingers on the table. “And now we must decide if we should tell the Prime Minister about this.”

Zephor frowned. The Prime Minister was currently trying to dig himself out of his latest scandal, and Zephor feared he might use the information to bolster his fading reputation with the Elysian people.

“I don’t believe the Code covers the Child of the Runes, sir,” he suggested.

Salla pulled out a small scroll and unrolled it. He found the section he wanted and cleared his throat. “The Code says, ‘The Prime Minister must be informed of all military operations involving troops of more than one host and of all serious threats to the City of Ezzer.’”

“Well, we certainly can’t consider this boy a threat to the City of Ezzer,” said Zephor.

“And he only has one guard,” said Salla. “That’s only one-hundredth of a host.”

“There’s no need to inform him at all,” said Zephor.

“Definitely no need,” agreed Salla.

“Well, the Child of the Runes must certainly be special if just his discovery can bring peace and agreement between you two,” said Octirius.

“Having to beg the Prime Minister for his approval of our every military move surpasses our distaste for each other, sir,” said Salla.

“I concur,” said Zephor.

Octirius chuckled and then turned serious. “So we don’t tell him. You two are witnesses that I am not going beyond my authority in keeping this a secret. Zephor, inform the scribes that they will suffer the worst form of execution imaginable if word of this gets out.”

Zephor nodded, and talk turned to other matters.

After the meeting, Zephor left the Command Chamber, worrying about the boy’s guard. A boy as special as this needed a guard of the highest caliber—a guard in top shape who knew enemy tactics inside and out, a guard with the ability to bring any charge through an earthian battle zone without a scrape.

Only one cherubian alive fit that description: RSO Major Davian.

Unfortunately, Davian was currently on a top secret assignment deep in the heart of Morvenia, and Zephor hesitated to call him back except in case of an extreme emergency.

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Copyright © 2006 M. B. Weston. All rights reserved.
Revised: 09/09/08