Rise of Souls: A Prophecy of the Sisters Novella

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I
sleen pushed the oars into the water, her mind on other things as the boat skimmed through the mist.

She had awoken early, as was the custom for a guide. There were not often travelers awaiting ferry to and from the island, but those called to this kind of service knew that guests were sometimes unexpected, their purpose often urgent.

Of course, this had been less true since the arrival of Amalia, the new Lady of Altus. In fact, Isleen could not remember a time that had been more peaceful than the year since Lady Amalia had taken the island in hand. The closure of the Gate to Samael, archdemon and enemy of the Sisters, had signaled an end to the fear that had informed every action of the Sisters for two thousand years.

It had taken time for the island to relax its guard, for celebrations to take place without the ever-present vigilance of the Brothers tasked with securing them, for Lady Amalia to walk freely about without a battalion of protectors at her back (though some on the island claimed to see Dimitri follow her at a distance, ever-watchful for potential danger to his beloved).

Even Isleen and the other guides had been allowed to relax their standards for passage to Altus. They still traveled through the mists that shrouded the island in secrecy, still took their assignments only from a select few people, but gone was the worry that their lives could be taken at any time, the island breached by the Lost Souls.

Thanks to Lady Amalia—and yes, her infamous sister, Alice—Samael would be trapped on the Otherworldly plane for eternity, the Gate that would have been his passageway to the physical world closed. And that meant the mortal world on one side of Altus was finally safe from the Otherworldly demon who resided on the other.

And Altus and all who lived there were safe as well.

Isleen tipped her face to the sky, the hood of her cloak falling back to reveal her long, dark hair as the mist swirled around her. The briny smell of the sea was part of her. She smelled it on her skin when she returned to the Sanctuary at the end of each day, listened to its soft roar as she fell asleep at night. Sometimes she was certain saltwater ran in her veins.

She felt the approach of land before she saw it. She was used to being on the open sea, accustomed to the vast expanse of water and sky around and above her. An obstacle ahead—any obstacle—rang like a false note through her bones.

She lifted the oars out of the water, allowing the boat to glide slowly forward, feeling the sandy bottom of the ocean scrape against the hull as it found the shores of England.

The beach was empty. In the distance, Isleen could see the sway of beach grass, the faint shadow of trees. She was beginning to wonder if she had misunderstood her instructions, miscalculated the timing, when a figure approached through the fog.

At first, Isleen did not know if the figure was a man or a woman. She and the other guides were never told in advance whom to expect. An order to see someone through the mist to Altus was enough. They guided their boats to land, picked up the waiting passengers, and delivered them to the island without question. It was not their place to query those who supplied the orders.

But a moment later, a man stepped confidently into the boat without a word. Isleen was relieved that he did not greet her. Speaking while on duty was forbidden for guides, and it was uncomfortable to retrieve someone who attempted to converse when it should have been clear after a few attempts that she could not—or would not—reply.

She used the oars to push the boat back into the water, surveying the man surreptitiously as she did so. His flaxen hair was long, brushing the cape that was tied around his neck. His form was hidden by the cloak, but his legs looked solid and strong, his feet, clad in black boots, large. Strength and confidence, perhaps even arrogance, emanated from his person, and she realized with a start that she was staring into his eyes, as green as any Sister’s. She wondered, then, if he was a Brother, or perhaps the son of one of the Sisters, though, of course, she would never be allowed to ask.

She steered the boat through the fog, instinct her guide. The island was a part of her. She felt it as part of her own soul. It was not always that way. When she had first come to Altus to answer the call of guide—leaving her mother and sister behind in Dublin, both of whom had no interest in their ancestry as part of the Sisterhood—she got lost more times than she could count. She spent hours training, drifting through the soupy fog, trying to discern her way back to the familiar shores of Altus before one of the seasoned guides, inevitably, came to her aid.

But little by little, Altus wound its way around her heart, through her soul. She came closer and closer to finding it on her own, drifting aimlessly through the sea and peering through the fog less and less. Finally, she had felt the tug of it pull her forward, a cry of surprise rising unbidden to her lips when she broke through the mist, the island rising up before her.

She had done it, all on her own.

She smiled with the memory, pausing as a twinge of alarm ran along her back, the tiny hairs on her arms rising in silent alarm.

Had she heard something in the water, hidden from view by the murky haze?

She lifted the oars, allowing the boat to glide silently through the water as she listened. But no. She was mistaken. There was nothing but the sound of water lapping against the side of the boat, the distant screech of the gulls circling above the blanket of fog.

She resumed rowing, allowing the island to pull her forward as if on a string, adjusting direction as she went to allow for the current.

As she came closer, there was a sense of homecoming. A sense that she was almost there. She could not have explained how she knew she was looking in the right direction. She simply did. She felt the island like a newborn kitten seeking its mother.

She stopped rowing and closed her eyes, allowing the words of the ancient tongue to find her lips, the music of them washing over her as she greeted the mist, thanked it for its protection, and asked it to let her—one of the Sisterhood—pass.

When she opened her eyes, the fog was a wall behind her, Altus shining in front of her. Her spirits sang.

Rocky cliffs rose high on either side of the island, their peaks lost to the mist, sheltering the beach used for ceremonies and the pier that was Isleen’s destination. The low-lying buildings of the Sanctuary stood sentry above the beach, walking paths winding in and out of visibility like a pale serpent. Apple groves dotted the landscape, the trees casting ghostly silhouettes through the wispy morning fog, their twisted branches heavy with the ripe red fruit, which grew year-round.

Isleen steered the boat toward the pier, anticipating a breakfast of fresh fruit and hot tea brewed from the orange blossoms that grew on the other side of the island. She was still some distance from the pier when she caught something in the water to her right.

Lifting the oars, she peered across the water, her eyes seeking the source of movement she had seen in her periphery only moments before. And then she saw it, there, right where the fog began, enshrouding the path she had just taken from the mainland.

It was another boat, though this one was not steered by a Sister.

She was still questioning the truth of what she was seeing when something else caught her eye. She turned her head, her gaze landing on yet another boat, steered by a man very much like the one commanding the other boat.

A man very much like the one sitting at the other end of hers, acting as if it were not at all unusual to be followed through a primeval, mystical fog to an island that did not, for all intents and purposes, exist in the real world.

Panic rose in her like a tide as she scanned the mist, her eyes finding not one or two other boats, but many. She turned to the man at the other end of her boat, still sitting calmly, as if she were imagining the spectacle of countless boats converging on the island.

Instinct finally forced her to her feet. She opened her mouth to scream a warning, hoping it would carry across the water to the still-sleeping island. But the man rose swiftly, crossing the boat in two graceful strides that did little more than rock the vessel from side to side. He grabbed one of her arms and clamped a hand over her mouth. For a minute, she could only stare into his frigid eyes, her gaze flickering to the scar on his neck and the black snake that twisted and hissed from under his collar.

And then she knew. He was one of the Guard. Samael’s Guard.

They all were.

It was her last coherent thought before the man heaved her over the side of the boat, her body tumbling into the ocean.

The water was cold. So cold it took her breath away. It enveloped her, wrapping itself around her like an icy lover.

She was glad. Better that she should be in the arms of her beloved sea, sinking into its murky depths, her cloak billowing out around her, than to witness the havoc that was coming for Altus and all who lived there.

Una stepped quietly into the room and tiptoed across the floor to the cradle. She did not want to wake the babies or their parents, sleeping soundly in the next room. She wanted only to see them, to ensure that they were safe and sleeping peacefully, though there was no reason they would not be.

It had become a ritual since the twins were born. Lady Amalia—Lia, when she and Una were alone—and Dimitri bathed them together, though there was more than enough help at hand. After their bath, Lia would see that they were fed, while Dimitri attended to other business, a strategy that was mostly theory given his fondness for gazing raptly at his wife as she nursed one of his sons while he held the other tenderly in his big arms. Then they would lay the infants head-to-toe in the cradle, carved from one, giant island oak, before retiring to their adjacent quarters.

Una knew the babies were safe. They always were, and with the Gate closed to Samael forever, the island—and the Sisters—were finally free of the prophecy’s curse.

Still, Una felt acutely her responsibility to Altus’s first family, to say nothing of the love that had flooded her body for the tiny boys from the moment they entered the world, Brennus squalling and red-faced, Connall as calm as the scrying waters on the south side of the island. She had known then and every day since that nothing was more important than their safety and well-being.

Now, as she peered over the cradle’s edge, she was unsurprised to see Connall looking up at her with clear blue eyes. He regarded her solemnly, as he often did, as if there were many things he was waiting patiently to tell her.

She reached into the cradle, touching his tiny, dimpled knuckles. He turned his wrist, wrapping his hand around her index finger.

“What are you doing, little Connall?” she whispered, smiling. “Your mother is sleeping soundly in the next room, but I’m quite sure she would like you to close your eyes. Otherwise, we both know you’ll be up all tomorrow night, and your poor parents will be too bleary-eyed to run the island the next day.”

He exhaled softly, a toothless grin breaking out across his porcelain face.

“Oh, you!” Una said, chuckling softly. “You are a devil, aren’t you? No one will ever see you coming next to your brother’s bluster.”

She cut a glance to Brennus, sleeping soundly at the other end of the cradle, doubtless worn out from the tantrums for which he was already infamous.

Connall babbled softly, and Una reached down, lifting him out of the cradle, careful not to let it sway for fear of waking his brother.

She touched a finger to the bridge of his nose, marveling at the softness of his baby skin. Then, settling him into the crook of her arm, she walked softly across the room until she stood in front of the glass doors overlooking the sea. They were open just a crack. Lia had insisted that the Sisters were on to something; the ocean air truly did aid sleep. Besides, she said, she wanted her sons to slumber to the sounds of the island and the sea that cradled her like an indulgent mother.

Una gazed across the rolling fields, past the orchard, to the water stretched out below. It shimmered in the moonlight like a blanket of diamonds, and she was suddenly overcome with contentment. It was something that happened frequently of late. The Sisters were safe from Samael and his Souls, the Gate closed forever. The price had been high—for Lia more than anyone—but the island reveled in its newfound peace. There were celebrations and dances and laughter and even journeys far afield, all without care of the demon who had hunted them. Sisters who had once shunned the Sisterhood—and the island—had even returned, seeking a home on Altus, eager to join the ranks of their ancestors.

Connall cooed in her arms, and Una looked down, speaking softly. “I suppose you want another story, then,” she said. “Very well. I have time for a brief one before I must go.”

The baby gurgled softly as if in approval.

“Once upon a time,” she began, “there was a beautiful princess named Lia. She was kind and good, but she was trapped in an evil castle, fearful of the one who had imprisoned her there.” She knew Connall was too young to understand, but she was still careful to gloss over the scary parts. “Worst of all, she knew nothing of her heritage, nothing of her ancestry as one of the most important Sisters of all time.”

Una’s heart grew heavy, as it always did, when her thoughts came to Alice. Una had not known Lia’s twin, but she had, of course, heard of Alice’s sacrifice. Everyone had. It was a sacrifice that had allowed the peace Altus now enjoyed, while Alice was likely trapped in the Void, her soul a prisoner of Samael’s for all eternity.

Alice was not Una’s story to tell. She would skip that part, as she always did for the twins.

“But Lia was brave, and she sought out her place among her people, risking great danger and embarking on many treacherous adventures. Along the way,” Una continued, “she met a handsome prince named Dimitri. Dimitri wanted to protect his princess, but Lia would have none of it, for she was not simply brave and beautiful, but strong and stubborn as well.”