Wings of Fate: The Lost Ones
Chapter 26

Klotho awakened just before the break of dawn. She lay on the ground, for a few moments longer, soaking up the silence of the morning. First light was always her favorite part of the day because anything was still possible. As the day went on, variables changed, possibilities ebbed and flowed until they redirected the entire day into something tangible, some permanent experience, whether good or bad.

At the end of the day, whatever happened had happened, and there were no more real possibilities for the day. It was ended.

Everyone was exhausted last night, she thought, glancing around the area in which Blossom left them. A small fire was lit for comfort, more than for heat or food, and its ashes slumped in the center of all the sleeping bodies. Atropos laid beside her, with Lachesis on her other side. Across from them, on the other side of the pile of ash, lay Prince Nicolaus, Logan, and Raven.

Glancing over her shoulder, she listened to the rushing sounds of the Delule River echoing against the trees, enticing her to rise and bathe. Stepping around the sleeping bundles on the ground she made her way to the river. Watching the forest floor as she moved, Klotho frowned at the smattering of black leaves fluttering across her path.

She and Atropos sat together long into the night discussing what Queen Rhyannon said and what the dying trees might mean. Atropos suggested they send for Artie as soon as possible and Klotho agreed. If anyone would have knowledge of the dying Woodlands it would be Artemis.

Klotho halted several feet away from the river and shed her clothes. Staring out across the dozen or so feet encompassing the width of the river she searched for signs of life. Seeing no one watching her early morning bath, she moved into the river, walking until her head was submerged.

Goose bumps rose, covering her skin just as swiftly as the river had. This early in the morning, before sunrise, the water was ice-cold. Later in the evening, just after sunset, the river would be like a warm bath. Klotho was glad for the chill in the water -- glad for the assistance in clearing her mind and waking up.

Turning, she waded closer to land until the waters’ surface lapped against her thighs and then sat. Grabbing fistfuls of wet sand from the riverbed, she began scrubbing her toes and legs.

Of the three of them, Klotho had the most wonderful gift -- to bring life. She did not end life like Atropos, and she did not make unfair demands of people, like Lachesis. She was happy, content even, with her gift. But at this particular moment, she thought with a sigh, it would be nice to know what was coming.

She asked Atropos who would die in this war, and who would live. But her sister looked at her with haunted eyes and pinched lips. Klotho knew Atropos well enough to know she would not be telling anyone what she knew. Her sister had a reputation for being cold and ruthless, and though Klotho had seen her live up to the reputation, it was far from the norm.

It was unimaginable, knowing not only when everyone you knew was going to die, but to also be required to have a hand in it. Atropos had the most difficult responsibility of them all.

Not everyone would outlive this war, she knew. Not everyone could.

What she did know, however, was there would be a child born of this war -- a red-haired daughter. When she mentioned the child to Lachesis, her sister nodded in distraction, whispering, “A babe to inherit all.” Lachesis had not met Klotho’s confused glance -- instead heeled her horses’ flanks and ridden ahead.

Dunking beneath the water, Klotho came up for air just as a lonely bird began his morning song. The music pulled at her soul, bringing tears to her eyes and the sound brought to mind another lost daughter -- Seravia.

The siren was lost to them for so many years that replaceing her seemed hopeless. Zeus believed his sister would be more like him than the father they both shared, but Seravia had been exposed only to Kronus’ treachery. Klotho figured the siren could know no better. The girl needed to be found, she thought with a sigh, stepping out of the water.

Early morning sunlight painted DeSolar’s sky in pinks, purples and varying shades of blue. The summer heat dried the river water on her skin before she ever reached her clothes. After pulling on her dress and sliding on her boots, she decided to pick a few of the delicious Ember berries alongside the river’s edge.

In no other place on DeSolar did Ember berries grow, which was unfortunate because they were the most delicious, juicy, sugar filled berries ever found. Biting into them caused the sweet juice to squirt into her mouth, followed by a flush of salt to make her tongue wriggle.

Klotho bent to pick up several foot-long sticks from the ground before ripping equally long blades of grass from their roots, and began twining the sticks together into a make-shift platter for the berries.

By the time she collected a heaping platter of berries the sky changed into an even shade of blue and she returned to camp with fingers stained Ember berry red.

Atropos sat on her folded legs with closed eyes. Her wide mouth moved slowly in prayer. The rest of their ever-growing group still slept as Klotho set the platter of berries down, joining Atropos on the ground. Her sister’s blue eyes opened with a sigh. “Ember berries?”

“Ohhhhhhh yeahhhhhhh.” Klotho answered with a smile. The two sat in silence and snacked on the red treats. Without the faeries bouncing through the trees, the forest became eerily still.

Sunlight dappled across Atropos’ face as she licked her fingers clean and stared at Logan’s sleeping back. “How long do you figure he’s been here?”

“Hmmm…” Klotho replied, pursing her lips. “Lachesis says he’s been here five years.”

“Five years.”

“Yeah.”

“Five years is a long time, I think.” Atropos said thoughtfully, narrowing her eyes at his back. “To be a part of something so terrible -- just to turn away from it and not be scarred, in any way, is unrealistic.”

“He does have scars, Atropos.” Klotho pointed out.

Atropos raised a thick eyebrow at her. “You know what I mean -- not the physical ones anyone could get tripping over a rock. I mean the ones that warp your soul.”

“You do not trust him.”

“Of course I do not trust him, Klotho, how could you think otherwise? Do you trust him? He just shows up at our camp one night claiming he had a change of heart? Please.” Atropos tucked her hair behind her ears and scowled at the man’s back. “We have come a long way, too far, just to have it all unraveled by the deeds of one simple mortal.” She whispered, ducking towards Klotho’s ear.

Klotho glanced to Raven, hoping the woman still slept and did not overhear their conversation. It was imperative she not wonder why Atropos referred to them as ‘mortal’. “Well,” she said, “the prophecy refers to Raven as the ‘carrier of hope’. Maybe she touched him in some way. And you know, as well as I, in this war there is no such thing as a ‘simple mortal.’” she whispered.

“Exactly my point and the prophecy says a lot of things.” Atropos grumbled. “Speaking of which, have you been able to replace anything out about the blonde child?”

“The little girl?” Klotho asked and then continued after Atropos nodded at her. “No, not yet. I have not been able to speak with too many people though. I asked Princess Shaylee last night when she came by to ensure our comfort.”

“What did she say?” Atropos asked.

“Nothing. She frowned and said she had not heard anything about a small blonde girl, then asked me if she should keep an eye out. I said it would not hurt to notice if the child happened through here, not to detain anyone, but just to make certain we were informed at once.”

Atropos ran both hands through her white hair. “I replace this frustrating.”

“Wh-?” Klotho started to ask, but Atropos continued.

“We waited for years, Klotho, years for this war to get under way. To stop the destruction of everything we know. Years we have waited for the prophecy to unravel itself. And now it has begun,” she growled as she stood and began to pace, “It has begun alright but now it is all moving too fast -- way too fast. We have little to no power.

I cannot see what is going to happen anymore, Lachesis cannot make a dent in anyone’s will power -- the Woodlands are dying Klotho, dying, which means Artemis’ powers must be fading as well. What else are we losing? Who knows? And now, now there’s a blonde child we know nothing about.” Though she whispered in her anger, Klotho cringed and stared across the pile of ash to where Raven nestled into the ground.

If she were to hear…

“I am positive we will learn something about her soon.” Klotho offered, trying to calm Atropos.

“Raven almost died back there.” Atropos sighed and stood still, staring at the ground. “It was almost over before it began.”

“But she did not die, Atropos.”

“She could have -- and the three of us powerless to stop any of it. I am trying to rely on skills I have never had to use because I cannot just make someone do what I want them to do.”

Klotho watched her sister with sad eyes, knowing the stress she felt was real. Atropos may have been concerned for Raven’s safety but it was a compilation of Raven’s importance in the war and the fact Zeus set the three of them with the task of her safety.

If they failed…

So much was at stake that even supposing a theory made Klotho ill. “We are almost home, sister, and as soon as we are there we will be able to start her training. If we can teach her how to defend herself, then the risk to her life will be lessened.”

Atropos nodded absently with a glance at Logan’s back again. “I just wonder whether we are courting danger or offering Raven a higher chance of survival by allowing him to live.”

“Good morning, Raven,” Klotho said.

At her greeting, Raven sat up, blinking and stretched her arms. Dirt and leaves fell away from her hair when she brushed back the long strands with her fingers.

“You have a bad habit of doing that,” Atropos growled.

Raven blinked in feigned confusion. “I have a bad habit of doing what?” she asked.

“Pretending to sleep while listening to conversations you are not meant to hear.” Atropos accused.

Raven scowled. “Well, what else am I supposed to do if I wake up and you guys are sitting there carrying on and on about my almost-death? Jump up and scream ‘I’m awake’?”

“Well that would be better than eavesdropping.” Atropos snapped.

“It’s not eavesdropping if you are standing on my back.” Raven countered.

“I was not standing on y-”

“Enough!” Klotho exploded, standing. The two women stopped and stared at her with open mouths. Klotho widened her eyes at them, conveying her disbelief at their behavior. “Wake the others, we are running late.”

Raven stomped past Logan’s sleeping body to where Prince Nicolaus lay curled in a ball. When she laid her hand on his shoulder, his eyes flew open and he rolled to his back, staring into her eyes. Frowning at the intensity in his gaze, she wondered if he heard what the women said.

Something must have shifted in his thoughts, though, because his eyes cleared and he smiled up at her with an equal number of both baby teeth and adult teeth.

She grinned back. “Time to go,” she whispered with a roll of her eyes. Soon they mounted their horses and headed north.

There was no telling how many hours passed when she awoke, lying on a stone floor, too frozen to move. Somewhere within the shadows, shuffling feet moved around the room. When she twisted her head to the side Raven could almost make out darkened shapes of strangers against the wall but when she cried out to them there was no response. Her tongue was thick inside her mouth and no tangible words escaped her lips. Her words, to her own ears, sounded like inhuman mewling, but even that small sound brought no one closer.

She closed her eyes and shifted her face away from the people against the wall, rolling the back of head against the rough cracks in the stone floor, and drifted to sleep.

#

As soon as she awoke Raven glanced up to replace a woman hunched over her body. Seeing she was awake, the woman kneeled on the floor and began poking at Raven’s stomach, sending fire shooting through her insides. Raven’s body trembled under the gnarled fingers of an old woman whose white hair fell around her shoulders, cascading over her torso to drape, forgotten, across the stone floor.

The woman’s appearance was cloaked by darkness but her voice flowed around the room. Raven listened, unable to comprehend the words passing through her cracked lips as they shifted across blackened teeth. The woman’s whispers echoed over themselves in the silent room, circling back until it seemed there were a dozen voices instead of one. Trying to pull away from her, Raven found herself frozen to the floor.

She glanced around the room. This is a nightmare, she thought. Wake up, Raven, wake up!

But still, the darkness invaded her senses and the whispers filled her ears. She tried, again, to move away from the old woman and though only the fingers of her left hand twitched on the floor, the old woman leaned towards Raven and snarled at her to keep still. As the woman leaned back, she pressed her fingers against Raven’s side.

Pain exploded through her body -- shrieking through her head. Raven screamed until the old woman ceased her torment and moved away, leaving Raven to close her eyes and gasp for breath in an attempt to fight the darkness enveloping her. “Please…” she whispered.

The stranger didn’t respond to the plea but, after a few silent moments, returned -- whispering. After a minute of trying to understand her, she realized the old woman wasn’t speaking a familiar language. Sinking into the cold floor, again, Raven allowed the words to dip and flow over her. The pain in her side swelled, piercing her body and, thick tongue or not, Raven screamed until she had neither breath nor sound left in her body.

#

She awoke again some time later to replace the old woman still seated beside her. The pain in her side was gone and, with all the sleep, Raven felt rested. Half a dozen white candles burned alongside the walls, giving no evidence as to whether it was day or night. Shadows swayed beneath the leaping candles, glowing hot against the well-worn cheek of the old woman. Silver streaks spiraled through her hair, highlights illuminated by the candles.

The cloaked people who hovered against the walls were nowhere in sight, having left some time while she slept. If they had even been there, she thought, worrying about the hallucination.

The old woman held Raven’s left hand in hers, turning it around in her palm, pulling it close to her face while she stared and muttered to herself. Under heavy lids, Raven watched in silence, wondering if the woman was putting a spell on her but too tired to care. When the stranger bent forward, a terrible stench wafted over Raven’s face. Forcing herself to not grimace, Raven stared at the woman -- wondering.

Thin bones jutted against translucent skin with an old-age milky quality, which allowed view of the individual blue veins running in parallel lines through her arms and neck. The stringy hair was gray instead of white and it hung against the woman’s back until it disappeared from sight.

The lines crossing her face ran in every direction beneath sagging folds of skin beneath surprisingly bright blue eyes. Her gray dress was wrinkled; filthy as though never washed, and threadbare -- stretching over slouching shoulders and falling to the floor where she sat on her knees like a schoolgirl, inspecting Raven’s hand.

“You have markings on your hand.” The old woman croaked in a voice hoarse from disuse. She darted a glance over her shoulder at something behind her, lowered her voice and whispered the words again.

Raven frowned. “What do you mean -- markings?”

“Lines, there are lines across your hands.”

“Everyone has those lines on their palms.”

The strange woman nodded, impatient. “Yes, yes…” she continued, nodding still, “but not -- not like yours.” She leaned forward then, bringing the sharp smell of sweat back over Raven’s face. Turning Raven’s hand around painfully, she pushed it into Raven’s face so she could see which lines the woman referred to. “See -- see here?” she quizzed, pointing to one of the white lines crisscrossing Raven’s hand.

Raven glanced at the white line on her hand and then met the stranger’s gaze. “That line has always been there.”

The old woman nodded again and pulled Raven’s hand back towards her own face. “Yes, of course, since birth -- that is how the markings work.” Raven didn’t know where this conversation was going, or if she should even ask what the markings meant because, while she was curious, she wasn’t sure she even wanted to know anymore. Instead, she kept her silence, watching the blue eyes staring at her hand.

Callous fingertips skirted across the face of her palm and Raven found she was surprised her hands no longer ached from getting scraped. Only hours ago they felt raw and bleeding. She mulled the thought over as she waited for the woman to continue.

The old woman wasn’t her first experience with a palm reader. Her sophomore year at Baltimore State University began with a girls-only trip to see a palm reader, who charged them each ten dollars to read “their future”. Having never believed in predictions, Raven scoffed at the idea but joined her friends anyway. The palm reader hadn’t been able to tell her anything more than that she would graduate from college and one day fall in love.

A prophecy that could pertain to anyone.

That was not to say she understood the purpose of the white lines dashing across her hands, because she didn’t understand their purpose at all, but palm reading? It wasn’t real.

Eyeing the woman, Raven waited while she fingered her palm and muttered to herself. If she didn’t know any better, she would think the woman was a witch. Did they have witches on DeSolar?

“This line here,” she pointed now at a line Raven couldn’t see from her position on the floor, “it means ‘warrior’ or ‘strength’.” Raven kept her silence and waited. “This other line here means ‘destroyer’. Those are nothing all that remarkable, though. The small one that runs off the side of your hand means ‘gone’ or ‘gone astray’ or ‘lost’,” the witch’s eyebrows grouped together in vexation, “which is an odd one to have,” she whispered and glanced over her shoulder again.

“But this one, this thick one that crosses your entire hand and then branches off twice,” she hissed, turning Raven’s hand backwards so Raven could see which one she was pointing at. “This line travels across your entire palm and is your Spirit Line -- the path of your spirit. You should not have any lines deviating from your spirit line, but you have two.” She turned her palm over and traced the line with one of her own fingers.

“What does that mean?” Raven asked, frowning.

“Something, I believe, to do with your heritage.”

“My heritage?” Raven asked, confused. “What would my heritage have to do with my having two of these so-called Spirit Lines?”

“Not ‘so-called’,” the woman answered, annoyed. She leaned closer to Raven’s face and whispered. “You were born of two people -- man and woman. Do you know which of them you favor?”

Raven stared into the bright blue eyes inches from her own and considered the murky memories she had of her parents. She had never been given any pictures of her parents; nothing to take with her to the foster home. Because of the lack of them, Raven spent most of her teenage years growing up with a disregard for which parent she resembled more. It hadn’t been until her brief stint in a genealogy course in college that she became almost fanatic about learning about her family’s history.

She hadn’t known where to begin her search, as there were no grandparents to ask -- no cousins to approach. In the end it was her professor whom suggested pulling old newspaper records from the night of her parents’ accident. It took over a week of searching to replace the article and it only turned up a small photograph of her parents smiling over her own cherubic face.

Once she had their names, it was easy to research the rest of the family. Her grandparents died many years prior to her parents’ accident, but more newspaper clippings turned up, including a small magazine article on her maternal grandfather’s pizzeria, which afforded her a few black and white photographs.

Raven copied, cut out, and saved every photograph and article she came across -- compiling the lot in a small scrapbook. She spent hours staring at the laughter in her mother’s green eyes and it was the only reason Raven knew the answer to the question.

“I look like my mother.” She answered.

“And she? Does she favor her mother or father?”

“She also looks like her mother.”

“Are you the only child of this union? Your mother is the only child of her parents?”

“Yes and yes, what’s your point?”

“I imagine all the women, in direct descendent order, look much alike and could be almost identical to their own daughter. You are your mother’s daughter, not your father’s -- and the same is true for your mother. The women in your family, I imagine, have much strength. Perhaps they are all beautiful -- even mesmerizing. It is in your blood, this thing passed down, from generation to generation, through the women of your family.

You are both the child of your parents and the child to something much more powerful than anyone realized. You are an heiress.” The woman forced the words past her lips as though the effort were painful. The bright eyes glowed with interest, standing out in the shadowed room.

“Being an heiress requires having parents with a lot of money.” Raven responded.

“Or power.” The witch whispered fiercely.

A gust of forced air skirted across her body as the door across the room opened. Raven’s hand smacked the floor hard. The old woman found her feet and stood. A large man wearing the same uniform as her abductors ducked beneath the low doorway and moved into the shadows draping across his path. In the dimness of the room Raven held her breath, wondering if it was Logan who came to visit her, but when the man straightened she realized she would have no idea if it was Logan staring down at her, or not. The visitor’s face was expressionless but the darkness in his eyes spoke of unleashed menace.

Raven looked away.

“The Queen Mother requests a visit with the guest.” Guest…yeah right, Raven thought as she looked up at the woman standing over her. She wondered if their conversation was of such import the Queen Mother may be given the results but the old woman glanced down at Raven dismissively, stepped over her body, and strode from the room.

#

The woman whom all referred to as the witch strode swiftly on silent feet through the stone corridors of the Queen Mother’s castle, intent on her quarters within the far wing of the castle.

How can this be? She wondered, ignoring the shadows along the hallway in favor of staring hard into the past. Her past. What her father told her so many years ago about the possibilities of his plan.

The blonde woman should not exist on DeSolar. She should not exist anywhere and for her to exist, means surely she is not from DeSolar. There was no doubt in her mind that her father did not plan for this. The bloodline was supposed to be dead.

Crossing through an empty sitting room, the witch, glanced through an open window at fields of summer grass sparkling with early morning dew. Sunlight beamed off the hills, creating a dance of shadow and light reflected by the tall green stalks bowing beneath a rampant wind.

Passing through the room hours earlier had provided none of the same enjoyment. Everything has changed, she thought.

Soon the view was beyond her sight and she returned to her thoughts. It was such an old conversation and yet she could still hear her father’s laugh in her ears. Please, daughter, that family is dead! It was one of many times she questioned various aspects of his plan -- little things that seemed uncertain. He resented being questioned and she knew it.

But that was when she thought she was helping his cause by pointing out the flaws in his reasoning. She did not want to help him anymore -- that ship had sailed many months ago. Long months had passed in his company before she realized how crazed he truly was.

And then there was the Queen Mother. The witch grimaced. A truly horrid woman.

Her father told her, when she questioned about the family line who could ruin him, that the family was dead. Each of the women as far down the line as it went until it was ended completely almost thirty years ago.

Someone screwed up, she thought, turning a corner.

Soon he would know how badly someone screwed up but he would have to learn it by some other means because she would not be the one to tell him. The existence of the blonde girl offered so much promise that the witch wanted to slam her door closed, instead of lightly pressing it into place, so that she could scream and laugh into the dark confines of her stone room.

She wanted to dance! The fight was not over!

With the swiftness of thought, the candles lining the wall of her room bounced into flame. The orange glow sparked along the stone wall illuminating the barest of rooms -- a cold room without the smallest of personal belongings -- a bed and an empty wooden nightstand.

Mulling over the steps that needed to be taken next, she considered her father. It was going to be impossible to escape him. The man was insane. With as much power as he amassed he was now able to control people without her help. But, that didn’t mean he would let her go.

Quite the opposite, in fact.

No matter where she was, he always seemed aware of it, and anytime she moved even one foot too far away from him he would call for her.

She knew him well enough, as well she should. He demanded her presence at his side and with every passing day, with every new atrocity, she became more and more disgusted with him. And she was having a difficult time hiding her thoughts from him. He sensed her pulling away from him, rejecting him -- turning away from the plan he made.

His dream.

She didn’t care for his dream and wanted no part of it. The sacrifices to his dream had been many. Should anyone argue with any step of his plan, they wound up dead. If anyone posed a threat to his plan, they wound up dead. Time and time again she watched him grow quiet as fear welled within his breast -- as he met some new authority who challenged him. Challenged him and stood a chance of destroying his plans.

He would grow afraid and then whatever or whoever that authority was, would disappear. There was no room for any authority but his own.

But that was before he stopped telling her things, before he stopped including her in all his plans. Because she pulled away from him. Rejecting him.

And he was afraid.

Raven was led, by four soldiers, through a hallway as wide as a lane in a road back home. The guards wore tight fitting blue jeans and dark green vests, just as the men who abducted her wore. The muscles in their arms gleamed with dirt and sweat, flexing as they marched through the hallway. Heavy boots vibrated on the floor with drum-like thuds echoing along the length of the corridor. Their presence contrasted with the halls’ pristine cleanliness.

Though the sounds of life in the castle filtered back to her, Raven saw no one other than these four men. Her mangled tennis shoes moved across the gray stone floor with nothing more than a whisper, leading her towards a dreamlike sense of doom.

Though the old woman healed the wound, small stabs of pain pulsed in her side as she walked. Other than that small pain, there was little else in the hallway to distract her from her predicament.

The time for believing this world was a dream had come and gone. No matter how horrible the experience, she wasn’t waking up and now knew the truth. She was stuck on a foreign planet in the middle of a deadly war and was never going home.

Other than the old woman, whom she suspected was some sort of medieval witch, no one spoke to her. It was obvious her life was in danger and, if she didn’t figure out what was going on with this latest twist, she was going to be in a lot more trouble. Escaping was an option but Raven discarded the idea because there was nowhere to go.

She thought about Logan, wondering if he might help her escape and almost laughed for thinking the man who kidnapped, threatened and hit her would actually choose to spirit her away. She had lost her mind if she thought there was anything redeemable about that man. Get a grip, Raven.

Instead, her thoughts turned to Bael. If she went with Bael instead of the Moirai, she would not be here now. Bael and Austin were far away, a quiet journey of two men traveling to the safety of Bael’s homeland. Allegora was unfamiliar but it had to be better than this. Surely they were almost there by now.

Austin’s face waved in her mind, his dark brown eyes staring up at her with trust as they stood outside Ruth’s cottage. His brown eyes looking at her as though she were an idiot when she suggested they were dreaming, still home, still safe in their beds.

She hoped he was okay -- more than okay, even. She hoped he found happiness in Allegora. It would be too much to hope that he never replace out how she died and that it was for nothing. She was his only link to home -- to Earth. She hoped he never found out how violent DeSolar was.

Raven’s thoughts were interrupted as her guards stopped before a large door fashioned out of wooden planks. One of the soldiers grasped a bronze knocker and tapped on the door with an unbelievably gentle action for a man of his size. All four of the guards stepped back from the door, forming two lines of two men each, and faced each other with their hands clasped behind their backs.

Raven took the opportunity to look into each of their faces. None of them looked at her or each other. It was as though they could see nothing at all. Dark eyes and blazing scars monopolized their faces. She didn’t recognize any of them as being on the forest road where she was taken.

It seemed only a second passed since the echo of the door knocker faded into the silence of the castle before the door was opened by a weasel of a man who looked at Raven as though she were a piece of trash someone dropped on the floor at his feet. She narrowed her eyes at him.

The weasel didn’t seem effected by her opinion -- instead he twisted his thin lips in a menacing grimace and waved them forward. Raven followed, towering over him by a good four inches, and glared at the back of his balding head. His clothing looked out of place. Without the benefit of a belt, brown trousers slouched around his skeletal hips and were overlaid by a breezy, white tunic. He wore brown sandals instead of boots and, as he skittered through the corridor, she wondered what his job was.

The room she was led into was dim, shadows hung behind bars of white light streaming through elongated rectangular holes carved into the walls. Waving grass and forest stretched on for miles outside them. The sun bore down on the land, allowing shifting light to play through the windows, catching dust particles as they hovered in the air. The room lacked furniture.

As barren as the room was, it was sizeable. Raven imagined more than one hundred of the Queen’s soldiers could have fit into the space. The weasel glided across the floor, followed by Raven and the soldiers, and moved towards the far end of the room, which was illuminated by pillared candles set into the walls.

Against the back wall rested a bulky chair where a slender woman sat board straight. When they were within ten feet of the woman, the weasel looked over his shoulder at Raven and pointed to a spot on the floor. He moved to the side of the chair. Raven stopped three feet to the right of where he pointed. His dark eyes glared over a beak of a nose but he said nothing.

Raven glanced behind her, searching out the four guards who accompanied her and found them about six feet back. Turning back to face the woman, the Queen Mother, she thought with a sudden urge to flee, Raven raised an eyebrow in question.

The woman tilted her head to the side and looked Raven over. The Queen’s face was painted with an eye for rosy cheeks to match the lipstick she wore, and the light brown shading on her eyelids contrasted against her pale skin. The woman’s eyebrows arched over eerie black eyes -- a kohl-like color that matched the hair twisted into a bun.

An enormous string of white pearls hung around her neck, offsetting the smaller pearls sewn into the silver dress covering her from neck to toe. The dress was cinched tight around her wrists, elbows, neckline, and waist, to billow out around her legs. The silver headdress stood stiff and almost reached the top of her head but was outdone in sheer height by a red and silver crown.

Realizing she was staring, Raven returned her gaze to the Queen’s eyes, and then averted her gaze again from the solid blackness.

The Queen Mother arched a brow at her. “Where is he?”

“Where is who?” Raven responded, confused, raising her eyes to the Queen’s face.

The Queen slapped a well-manicured hand against the armrest and shouted. “You know very well whom I mean!” she paused then and took a breath. When she resumed, her voice was calm. “You were seen with my son and he is missing. I want to know where he has gone or what you have done with him.”

“I’m afraid you are mistaken, or misled, because when I was abducted I was with three women -- there were no boys there, least of all your son.”

“I know very well who you were with when you were detained,” she snapped, “you were seen with my son a few days ago and he has not been seen since.”

Raven was already shaking her head. “I wasn’t with your son.”

Cold, black eyes skirted over Raven’s body. “Ten years old, about this tall,” she said placing her hand out, “brown hair, brown eyes. I can see by your expression you know who I am talking about.”

She described Austin to a ‘t’ but he came with her to DeSolar only a week ago and could not possibly be the Queen’s son. He had been with her a few days ago. Four days, to be exact. Raven opened her mouth to correct the Queen but then pressed her lips together. Would the woman send soldiers after Austin? It was possible the woman didn’t even have a son. She could be lying in order to learn where Austin went.

If that was the case, then the Queen Mother kidnapped her for reasons, most likely, related to the prophecy. If she wanted Raven and Austin, then that meant Austin was just as important to the war as the Moirai said she was. And if her involvement in the war was encouraging the Queen to kill her, then she couldn’t tell her anything about Austin.

“I’m telling you, I was not with your son -- if he even exists.” She said, tilting her chin.

The Queen watched her with hooded eyes, tapping one red fingernail against the chair’s wooden arm rest. “Oh, he exists.” She murmured, with a slow glance around the room. “Tell me about the women you were found with.”

Raven frowned at the change in subject. According to Ruth, the Queen Mother was familiar with Atropos, which meant she was familiar with all three of the sisters. It didn’t seem problematic for her to say so. “They are the Moirai.”

“Ah, yes,” she said, “The Moirai, and what did they want with you?”

“I don’t know yet.” Raven answered, figuring the Queen already knew why the Moirai wanted her. In fact, the woman most likely knew more than Raven did herself.

The Queen nodded. “What do you know about them?”

“Next to nothing, I was only with the sisters for a day before your henchmen attacked me.” She said, sliding in the barb despite its lack of usefulness.

With a slight smile, the woman continued. “Oh, yes, well -- sometimes the soldiers can be a little rough but never you-mind them, you have more important things to worry about. But I’ll tell you,” she said, her voice rising in a high, sarcastic pitch, “that there is one reason, and one reason only, why the Moirai sisters would want you, dear girl.”

Raven was uncomfortable with the direction the conversation was heading. Yes, she wanted to know more about the Moirai, but the Queen’s tone didn’t sound educational -- it sounded baiting. Perhaps the Queen did know why Raven was there. It was also possible she didn’t.

“Why would those three sisters want you, my dear, why would -- the fates want you if not for control over your fate, hmmmm?” she murmured, eyeing Raven.

The fates, Raven thought, astounded, of course. That was why the word ‘Moirai’ sounded familiar, it meant three and it referred to the three sisters of fate -- fate of life, fate of birth, and fate of death. Their faces wavered in her mind as she focused on their expressions -- their eyes, their grimness. They were the fates -- the three women who decided all.

Raven thought not to become embroiled in the violent war raging across DeSolar -- but the choice never existed. Atropos said they intentionally brought her to their planet to fight this war, and fight this war she would. Raising her eyes to the Queen; Raven decided to play dumb, which wasn’t too difficult. “The fates?”

The Queen laughed. It wasn’t a happy laugh. Her head lolled back as her lips stretched wide to reveal perfect teeth, allowing the insulting guffaws to echo against the room’s stone walls.

Raven kept her face blank.

When she calmed down, the woman’s black eyes bored into her. “You do not even know who the fates are. Those dear, sweet little sisters brought you here to lead their little war, didn’t they?” she asked, smirking. “Why they would choose you, I have no idea. What can you possibly do to help them, hmmm? What powers do you have?”

“I have no powers.” Raven said, frowning.

A slow, feral smile spread across the woman’s face. “No powers. What is your name, girl?”

She hesitated before answering and knew, the moment the name passed over her lips, she just brought herself more danger. The Queen’s fingers clenched the armrests, eyes widening, and she was as pinned to her chair as if someone held her there. Instead the Queen, with bulging eyes, whispered something Raven learned only days before.

“The raven.”

The room was a cauldron of dark shadows. Having no real need for the burning pitches others carried through the castles, the witch moved through the stone corridors like an invisible wraith. The few soldiers she passed earlier just marched by, almost brushing against the tattered cloth dress she chose to wear here.

The soldiers were as foolish as their Queen Mother, she thought with an unseen sneer.

They stared down at her as though she was an insect they could crush with the heel of their boot -- a laughable conception, really -- but the witch wasn’t laughing.

Too many things were riding on what happened now and there was no time to waste showing the soldiers and their leader exactly whom they were sneering at.

And so she kept moving, sliding unnoticed, by them. It took a few days to replace the room at the farthest reaches of the castle -- far enough away from the Queen’s Council Chamber if one went by foot steps alone, but it was so close to the chamber the witch was surprised to replace no one using it.

It was not enough that no one frequented this part of the castle, though, so she wrapped the hall and everything in it within a cocoon of webs -- making the entire section of the castle disappear from all the inhabitant’s thoughts.

To anyone else, the corridor simply did not exist.

The witch’s feet drifted across the shadowed floor as though it was lit by a thousand torches but she didn’t need light to see. The door to the room she kept for herself was just around the corner, blanketed by even more webs than the corridor. If, by chance, her father caught onto her actions and was able to break through the corridor webs -- he would still be unable to get past the door.

He might not be able to, but she sailed through the opening and closed the door behind her with an audible click -- a sound muffled by its distance from anyone else. Glancing at the wall, the witch sent a tiny thread of thought scurrying across the room -- it scrabbled along the stone floor and raced up the wall where five torches jolted into life -- each now holding leaping flames.

The room she chose wasn’t empty when she’d found it -- broken wooden tables were piled high in a corner, left behind like refuse. Around it lay shards of glass and mirrored containers. The pieces were easy to form into other purposes -- two of the tables she reassembled and placed along one wall for her books and supplies.

The glass was reformed to create small pillars and jars capable of holding small quantities of herbs growing in the Queen’s garden -- most of the herbs were harmless but others made her wonder if the Queen knew what was growing in her garden for they were deadly just to inhale.

Light flickered along the glass, jumping along the curved edges, where they sat nestled between stacks of books. Turning to the back of the room, the witch bent beneath one of the wooden tables, wrapped her fingers around the lip of a black, waist-high bowl, and dragged it out from under the table.

The bowl outweighed her by more than fifty pounds and one day, hopefully not too soon, she would replace it too unwieldy for movement. Well then, she thought, I’ll simply have to leave it in the center of the room. She wasn’t certain why she felt the need to hide the bowl but every time she visited the room, she replaced the bowl beneath the table before leaving.

And each time she returned to drag it to the middle of the room, like now.

One of the glass jars held a brackish brew of blackened dreams and water gathered from the Delule River. A few sprinkles of the poisonous herbs from the Queen’s garden, as well as some of the simpler herbs, were stirred into the mixture, adding both healing and devastation.

Sometimes the use of the cauldron frightened her -- having no real certainty of how long her powers would hold out. Eventually, her father would steal them as he stole power from so many others.

Expelling a heavy breath, the witch released her grip on the pot and stood back. The brew sloshed against the brim, waving from left to right against the bowl, until it settled into a steady movement of rings widening ever outward to the round edges of the container -- able to move no further.

As the brew settled, she stepped to one of the tables, stretching a hand over the cluster of glass and wooden containers -- her gnarled fingers hovered inches above them until she spotted the one she needed.

With quick fingers, she chose the downy-soft tip of a feather, pulling it high and watching the gleam of firelight dance along the tiny, cobalt blue hairs. It was as long as her forearm, stretching from fingertip to elbow, but was one of the shortest feathers to be found on the Cockaboo gull she took it from. That had been quite the fight, she thought now with a grin.

Finding a Cockaboo gull grounded was the luck of the draw for they rarely came so close to the planet’s surface. Their ingrained distrust of humans was matched only by their ingrained hatred of humans. But a week ago, she was sitting in the forest surrounding the Queen’s land, when a disturbing crash resounded through the trees followed by a ground trembling thud.

She had jumped to her feet to search for the source of the sounds and found the cobalt blue Cockaboo thrashing around on the ground with its wings bent behind it in some parody of flight -- but they were broken and misshapen.

Hundreds of feet above its head, branches bounced up and down, and leaves fluttered to the ground -- broken away from the limbs the gull slammed into as it crashed through the trees.

Crouching low, she watched the gull for over an hour, stunned to see one so close; stunned it was on the ground; stunned it was broken.

She was not as stunned as the bird though. It cawed and moaned, leaping from one orange webbed foot to the other, ducking its head behind its shoulders in an attempt to fix its wings. Its head was covered with the same blue fur as the rest of its body -- it butted up against the edges of the birds’ doe-shaped eyes and surrounded the almost unnoticeable mouth hidden beneath a large orange beak.

Seeing that it could not flee, lest it run madly through the trees -- Cockaboos were well-known for their speed on foot -- the witch approached on crouching legs with arms stretched wide. Crooning to it, she whispered musical words of praise and encouragement, telling the bird she meant no harm and would help.

The gull froze in place, cocking its head in her direction, listening as she approached and, staring with orange eyes, daring her. The idea to steal one of its feathers came into her head the moment she saw it lashing about. Any bird would have sufficed for the purpose she had in mind, but a Cockaboo gull was, by far, a better replace.

The Cockaboos were large birds, almost as tall as a full-grown man, and one of the most intelligent of the flying species. Their wing span allowed for extended flight times -- covering more distance in a shorter amount of time than their closest relative, the Sheraboo gull, which was half the size, bright pink, and a tad daft.

The gull watched her approach, calm under the influence of her crooning, until the moment she darted forward to steal a feather.

He reared up in anger; cawing and badgering her with its broken limbs. With her hand clutching a handful of feathers, the Cockaboo remembered his well-functioning feet and took off through the forest.

With her still attached.

Instead of being frightened by the speed of its escape, the witch laughed in excitement. How long had it been? She’d wondered, almost drooling in the wake of such a rush.

Eventually, its’ leaping, grounded-flight dislodged her from its back. Rolling to her feet and gasping for breath, she’d watched it disappear within the trees before raising her hand to stare at the one cobalt blue feather clutched between her fingers.

Shaking her head now, the witch moved to the pot.

Mumbled words of purpose drifted between her lips as she closed her eyes. Spreading her arms wide above her head, the witch continued the tumble of words -- their exactness and perfection required by the spell. Thirty minutes passed as she recanted the words and then she lowered the blue feather to the pot. Dipping the crescent shaped hairs into the brackish brew, she stirred counter-clockwise with one full turn around for each passing minute.

And still she mumbled the words.

Another thirty minutes later the transformation began. The long strands of her moon colored hair shook off her latest disguise, that of a scraggly old woman. The tattered dress, which clung to the matronly shaped body of the witch, slid to the floor with nothing more to hold onto than small curves and near absent breasts.

The wrinkles faded from her face and her translucent skin changed from thin to sturdy. The witch reveled in her true body. Within moments her hair changed again, from blonde to cobalt blue -- the color drifted over her hair as though it were painted on, slow to ebb down the waist-length strands until its entirety was changed.

Next, her skin began to change from girlish vibrancy to blue -- the veins, coarse skin, and short blue hair of the gull glided over her legs, stomach, and arms.

She dropped the feather in the pot as her feet and arms turned into webbed orange talons. She sucked in a surprised breath as a rush of cool air drifted across her face, transforming her features into those of a Cockaboo gull.

Cawwww.

“Yes, they came to visit but left more than a week before the soldiers barreled through my gates.”

“That is good news Lord Belkin. Perhaps they were far enough away to be safe from danger. The Queen seems to be on a rampage.” Bael said, in a near whisper, into the tomb of black silence around them.

“I certainly hope so. The girls should be at their mother’s home by now, resting amid the shade trees, knitting, or whatever it is adolescent girls do.” Lord Belkin answered.

Ares’ amused smile went unseen in the darkness. No girl I know spends her time knitting. Had he daughters of his own they would have been training alongside their brothers on Insula de Barbati. Even had there not been sons for them to train alongside -- his training facility would have been their home.

Girls could be just as fearsome as many men. More so, he thought.

Concern over where his imaginary children might be at any given moment, though, was not a worry Ares had to experience. After watching, for eons, the troublesome tots of his closest relatives and friends, he was certain he would never actively choose to have one of those heathens. Like all people, it was easy to claim his children would be different because they would, naturally, be like him.

But he saw enough cases to know that statement for the mockery it could become.

Isis! He bellowed again, forcing himself not to mentally curse the woman -- for she would most certainly here that. There was no telling how many times he called for her and each time brought about the same results.

Nothing.

The additional slices of bread helped bring Austin back from the brink but his energy was still low, which, under the circumstances, wasn’t too bad of a thing.

He and Bael discussed, at length, the conversation he shared with the witch and it got them nowhere. Bael was frustrated with the topic and still kept his secret about the witch’s reasons for healing him. Ares could guess what the reason was, but it would only be a guess.

And now Bael and Lord Belkin, having nothing more to do, were discussing the Lord’s teenaged daughters Amalee and Kirsten. DeSolar was on the brink of the second most important war in the history of the gods and he was stuck in a prison cell talking about knitting.

“When my daughters arrived they told me they ran across a band of roving gypsies who were heading towards the Kentron desert.” Lord Belkin said.

“Did they mention the name of their gypsy leader?” Bael asked -- interest evident in his voice. Ares rose to his feet to move around the small cell before his legs grew too numb from the cold.

“Here now, let me see,” Lord Belkin said, muttering to himself. Ares brought to mind the image of the older man crouching in the corner as he was when Bael joined them however many days ago. Picturing his disheveled appearance was easy and Ares wondered how long it would take to go crazy in their prison.

How long could they exist in mind-numbing darkness with little food?

He could go a long time, surely, but the mortals? Unsure whether Lord Belkin was important to the cause, Ares still worried about Bael and Austin.

Most importantly, Austin.

Ares glanced over his shoulder into the nothing behind him where Austin rested. He was always quiet these days but his breath whispered in and out of his lungs with a regular constancy Ares found somewhat comforting.

“I’m not certain, Bael, but I think it was Michael or Marcus or something like that.” Lord Belkin answered, sounding entirely uncertain.

“Mosabe, perhaps?” Bael asked.

“Yes! Yes, that was it exactly. I do thank you Bael, yes that was it.” Lord Belkin responded. He sounded glad to remember the information, even though Bael supplied the name.

“Hmmm.” Bael murmured to himself.

“Is it important?” Ares asked, frowning. Why would the name of the gypsy leader be important to Bael? The gypsies roamed the surface of DeSolar as the rootless vagabonds they were -- unlabeled and unchained to any social demands in any city. If they shifted from Camelion Land to Kentron Desert to Avondale, what difference did it make?

“Not really,” Bael answered with a sigh, “it’s just Mosabe typically stays clear of the Queen’s lands.”

“We are not so close to the desert right now,” Ares offered.

“No, I know that,” Bael answered, still sounding concerned, “but we are closer than he would typically be. I cannot help but wonder what has put Mosabe on the move and in such a strange direction, to an unforgiving desert.”

Ares imagined Bael running long fingers through his hair and wondered what he really did. The darkness was beginning to drive him batty. “Do you think it has to do with the Queen?” he asked.

“I don’t know, honestly.” He sighed again. “Any luck with Isis?”

It was Ares’ turn to expel a heavy breath. “No.”

“What does the Queen Mother want?” Lord Belkin asked in a hesitant voice. “I mean to say, soldiers came through here about a year ago requesting a meeting between me and the Queen and I opened my door to her. When she arrived, Nadia was every inch the respectable and alluring woman, and thus she remained during her entire visit. She did not seem like the mad woman she was rumored to be.”

“Oh, she is a mad woman, alright.” Ares said with a laugh. “Mad and vicious. She wants control, pure and simple -- power.”

“But she already has the largest kingdom on DeSolar -- what does she want with anyone else?”

Bael jumped in. “The Queen means to bring war to DeSolar, Lord Belkin, and she means to win -- regardless of how many are killed in the doing of it.”

“But why?” he persisted.

“Because she was told to.” Ares answered, bored with keeping secrets.

“What?” Bael asked. “By who, your father?”

Ares barked in laughter. “Of course not my father, why ever would you think such a thing? My father longs for the Queen’s head just as much as anyone else.”

“I don’t think more than anyone else -- what about young Prince Nicolaus.” Lord Belkin said.

“Yeah, what about Prince Nicolaus? Who is he?” Austin asked, speaking for the first time in several days.

So much for being bored with secrets, Ares thought, now look what you’ve done. “Prince Nicolaus is the only child born of the Queen Mother and her recently deceased husband, King Josef.”

“A truly wonderful man.” Lord Belkin said.

“Yes, well, as Lord Belkin says, King Josef was loved by many. All except, it would seem, his wife who is rumored to have him killed. Their son, Nicolaus, feared for his life and so ran away from home and is now hiding somewhere within the shadows of Pandemic Forest.”

“Where is that?” Austin asked.

“Everywhere in the Kingdom of Camelion where there are trees.” Ares answered.

“Like the ones we walked through to see the old wise woman?”

Bael answered. “Yes.”

“How come I look like him?” the boy asked.

“Well, Austin, perhaps Prince Nicolaus looks like you.” Ares said.