The Prophecy of the Gems (11 page)

“I am,” confirmed the young man.

“And what is your name? You may tell me, have no fear,” Elfohrys assured him, in mounting excitement.

“I have no name,” confessed the young hovalyn. “Or at least, not that I know of. Two years ago, I awoke in a field without any memory of my past. I decided to become a knight errant and go in search of my real name.”

“The Nameless One!” exclaimed Elfohrys admiringly. “Your reputation is known throughout all
Fairytale! Everywhere, people speak of a gallant hovalyn seeking his own name. Are you truly the Nameless One?”

“Unhappily, yes. My quest seems to have led me nowhere.”

“It is within my power to assist you. I can help you pass through this forest, and will accompany you even farther on your way.”

“But why should you wish to help me?”

“I too am on a quest, but I may not reveal to you either its purpose or my destination.”

“I am seeking the Chosen One,” added Elfohrys to himself, “and I believe I have found him.”

The hovalyn asked no questions; after all, he welcomed a travelling companion, even a mysterious one. The silent young man’s thoughts turned, as always, towards his dream: to have an identity. He had wandered in vain through most of Fairytale asking everyone if they knew anything about him. En route he had fought many monsters that had been terrorising the population, and admittedly he had been richly rewarded, but glory was not what he wanted. At night, after having faced a thousand perils,
he never fell asleep without wondering what his name was and where he had come from. He had invented hundreds of pasts for himself, depending on his moods, but this brought him little comfort, and frustration continued to eat away at him as he wandered on his fruitless mission.

It was growing late, and he was getting hungry. The youth opened his heavy leather bag and took out some bread, a gourd of water, some smoked turkey, and a strange-looking fruit. He offered to share his food with Elfohrys, who declined politely, producing an extraordinary-looking meal from his own bag: a sticky purple mass, which he devoured. Quickly satisfied, he waited patiently while his companion ate his own repast. Without a word, the Nameless One made a crackling fire, and sat down beside it to ponder his unexpected situation. All of a sudden he had found himself in the company of a stranger about whom he knew absolutely — or almost — nothing. Could he trust him?

Elfohrys had stretched out and was already sleeping deeply.

The young hovalyn could not manage sleep himself and lay staring up at the twinkling stars. He
tried to recognise the different constellations and remember their names. He was overcome with anguish… What was he? Who was he? Nothing but a body, a soul in pain, with no memory, nothing that would make him a human being. He was a stranger to himself. He drew his sword from its scabbard and studied its long, glossy blade, so smooth and sharp. He imagined the blade piercing his own heart. Would he feel cold? Perhaps not; he already carried winter inside him, an eternal winter of questions without answers. Of what use was he in this world?

The stars shone more brightly than usual. He got up, sword still in hand, and began to walk without knowing where he was going, without worrying that he might become lost. What did it matter? He took a winding path and plunged into the darkness. He walked on and on without stopping, oblivious to his surroundings, arriving at last in a moonlit clearing. Spying a lake, he went to its edge and sat contemplating his face in its clear water. This face of his — what did it represent if he did not have a name? Alone with his thoughts, he sat there for a long time, his sword lying by his side.

Suddenly, his reflection was disturbed, and from the lake rose a beautiful creature like a mermaid, with a woman’s body and two tails of equal size covered in golden scales. Her features were delicate, her blue eyes glinted with gold, and her skin was almost too white, too flawless. Her black hair, tumbling in heavy, silken curls to her shoulders, did not seem wet from the waters of the lake from which she had just emerged. In her slender hands she held a golden casket encrusted with pearls.

“Mortal!” she said fearlessly. “You have dared to approach the Lake of Torments! Only those who suffer may gaze at their reflection in its waters; all others drown themselves, having sought here a consolation they did not deserve. My sisters and I are the guardians and mistresses of the lake. We show ourselves rarely, and only to those worthy of us. I have come to speak to you, mortal, for I must give you something that belongs to you.”

“You are mistaken. I possess only my body, my soul — nothing else belongs to me… I am nothing, and do not even have a name. I am called the Nameless One.”

“I know your identity, your past, and even some of your future. There are many who know as much as I
do, without knowing you. But even if you were to ask me, I would not reveal to you the name you received at birth, for that is not my mission. The only thing I have the right to give you is this casket. It was entrusted to us, to my sisters and me, many years ago, and we promised to give it to a particular person, destined to appear at the lake in the fullness of time. That person is you, mortal. Guard carefully the contents of this casket. That was the wish of those who gave it into our hands.”

The Nameless One seized the object. Without a sound, the mermaid with the jet-black locks sank back into the depths of the lake. Dumbfounded, but curious, the young man slowly opened the casket, holding his breath, his heart pounding wildly.

In an instant he violently snapped it shut, his intense disappointment shaking him to the core.

The casket was empty.

The Thirteenth Councillor did not often fly into a rage. This time, however, he was in an indescribable fury; he
was shaking and his features were distorted with anger. When he shouted, his voice echoed through the rooms of the palace of the Council of Twelve.

“What?” he roared. “You tell me that the entire city of Nathyrnn has escaped? Do you take me for an imbecile?”

The image of a Knight of the Order, quaking with fright, appeared on a large, thin plaque of gold floating in the air.

“Uh… Yes, everyone has escaped,” confessed the man in a voice that was barely audible.

“And how do you explain that?” bellowed the Thirteenth Councillor. “Are you going to tell me, perhaps, that you just happened to be asleep when they escaped?”

“Well, actually — yes,” stammered the Knight of the Order, confused and ashamed.

“You dare to lie to me? Do you not know the fate that awaits you? Death! And dishonour! In the public square!”

“But I assure you, I am not lying.”

“Give me the border of the dukedom of Divulyon — at once!”

The image faded instantly, replaced by the face of another Knight of the Order.

“Commander-in-Chief of the Knights of the Order guarding the border of Divulyon, at your service!” he barked.

“Commander,” snarled the Thirteenth Councillor, beside himself with rage, “did you arrest a large number of fugitives a few hours ago?”

“The thing is…” replied the commander, suddenly humble and hesitant.

“What happened?” cried the councillor. “Don’t lie to me!”

“We did in fact intercept a number of people. We neutralised most of them. We fought valiantly. Our troops were hard pressed. We—”

“I want to know if anyone crossed into Fairytale!”

“Yes,” admitted the knight miserably.

“But that’s impossible!” shrieked the Thirteenth Councillor. “Who was leading this revolt?”

“Apparently, a young man we have not been able to identify.”

“Were there three girls, about fourteen years old?”

“I believe so. One of them in particular was an extremely fine warrior.”

“Don’t tell me she’s dead, or you’ll join her!”

“No, not her. A different one.”

“Which one? Describe her!”

“Blonde, milky skin, pale eyes, simple clothing…”

“What? You’ve just signed your own death warrant, sir knight!”

With a wave of his hand, the Thirteenth Councillor sent the golden plaque back into thin air. He clenched his fists furiously — all had not gone according to plan. If he had managed to prevent the girls reaching Fairytale he could have destroyed them quickly. Now Jade and Amber were beyond his reach… for the time being.

It was time for a new plan. True, Opal had died too soon for his liking, but together, the Stones were a powerful threat. Without Opal the other two were vulnerable — and he would show them no mercy.

Before long, the Prophecy would be nothing but a waste of paper, a meaningless book. At that thought, his face twisted terrifyingly into a grimace of joy.

THE COUNTRYSIDE WAS
shrouded in darkness, but they could vaguely discern wooded hills and plains of dense, wild grasses.

The former inhabitants of Nathyrnn hugged one another joyfully, their faces transfigured by happiness. How could they not believe in the impossible after seeing the merciless Knights of the Order sheathing their swords?

Speechless with sorrow, only Adrien, Jade and Amber did not share in the general euphoria. Opal’s death had shocked and dismayed them. She was gone,
never to return, and had left them so suddenly that they could not quite believe it, although Adrien held her lifeless body in his arms. Her blonde curls tumbled in the breeze, a thin smile was frozen on her pale lips, and her face had a waxen pallor. In spite of everything, even in death, she was still beautiful, and seemed all the more untouchable.

Adrien held back his tears and put on a brave face to hide his grief and bitter regret. Still carrying his sad burden, he led Jade and Amber to a modest but handsome manor, the home of his friend Owen of Yrdahl. The front door to the manor always stood open in welcome, so Adrien simply made his way through dark corridors to a guest room he had often used, paying no attention to the few late-night revellers who looked at him curiously.

When he reached the room, he laid Opal down gently on the bed with its clean white sheets, knelt in front of her, took her still-warm hand in his, and gazed at her in silence.

Standing slightly behind him, Jade and Amber no longer knew what was happening, where they were, or what they were doing. They simply stood there: they
did not want to think any more, because Opal was dead, and they had still not managed to grasp that.

Amber couldn’t help crying. Blinded by tears, she wondered why life was so incomprehensible and why it relentlessly pursued those whom it had decided to destroy. She had thought that nothing could touch Opal, that she was in some way immortal. Why had Opal disappeared in such a cruel and untimely way?

Jade felt bad: she hadn’t been able to feel real sorrow at Opal’s fate. She had shed a few tears, but they’d been inspired more by her horror of death itself, by her dread of plunging one day into an endless void, of not being able to think, to dream, of being erased from the world, forgotten… A little ashamed, Jade admitted to herself that she had absolutely detested Opal. Even now that she was dead, Jade couldn’t summon any affection for her, only a hint of compassion. She was aware, however, that she, Opal and Amber had belonged together in some vague way, forming a whole that should not have been wrenched apart. Opal was not supposed to have died, she was certain of that. Her feelings were in turmoil: she wasn’t really sorry that Opal had died, but she felt
guilty because of her callousness. She remembered the dead girl’s chilly disdain for her, but a voice, reproaching her for being hardhearted and arrogant, kept reminding her that Opal had been vital to their quest.

Just then a man entered the room. Well-built, with broad shoulders, he was simply dressed and seemed about twenty years old. He had a frank and engaging smile and appeared beside himself with happiness.

“Adrien!” he shouted. “You’ve come back! I jumped right out of bed when I learnt you were here! Tell me, who are these charming ladies?” Turning to Jade and Amber, he announced, “Let me introduce myself: I am Owen of Yrdahl, an old friend of Adrien’s, and I’m delighted to meet you! Welcome to my home!”

Adrien rose, and now Opal’s body could be seen lying on the bed.

“Look, Owen! She’s dead! Dead! It’s my fault. A Knight of the Order murdered her, but I could have stopped him! And I did nothing…”

Owen’s smile vanished instantly. He rushed to Opal’s side, seized her wrist, and looked at the blood
still flowing from her wound. Then he dashed from the room without a word. Jade and Amber stared at each other in astonishment. A few minutes later, Owen of Yrdahl returned with a short, stout middle-aged man who examined Opal without a word.

“This is Lloghin,” explained Owen, “one of our most experienced healers. Of course your friend’s case is not really serious, Adrien, but it would be better if she didn’t lose too much blood.”

“Owen,” replied Adrien miserably, “don’t make fun of me! Opal is dead, and I don’t see how a healer can change that! It’s not something to joke about.”

“Joke?” Then Owen hit his forehead and cried, “That’s right, you haven’t heard!”

“Heard what?” asked Adrien, who felt an insane glimmer of hope return to his heart.

“Death has gone on strike! She hasn’t done that for two centuries, and it’s very annoying. Your friend is alive.”

“Very annoying?” repeated Amber. “I don’t see what’s so annoying about a miracle! What is Death on strike for?”

“Everyone knows that Death lives in Fairytale — in
an inaccessible area, obviously. And just a few hours ago, she decided to stop working. So, no one can die any more.”

Jade and Amber were stunned. Adrien, who was used to Fairytale, could only weep tears of relief.

“Death is depressed,” continued Owen. “She claims that no one loves her, which is true, naturally. But she would like to be appreciated for her true worth. They say she wants to kill herself. Since that’s impossible, she’s become even more depressed. Her advisors are at their wits’ end.”

“So Opal is alive!” rejoiced Amber.

“Yes, but it will be some time before she is completely well again. That’s why we must stop the flow of blood.”