The Prophecy of the Gems

  “The townswomen have made some clothes for you to show their gratitude,” announced Amnhor, presenting them with elegant dresses. Then he gave them a tiny blue glass vial containing a thick liquid.

  “The healers would like you to have this potion: it is the most precious one to have survived the attack of the Army of Darkness, and its preparation requires months of concentrated effort. Unfortunately, there are only two mouthfuls of it in this vial.”

  “Thank you,” replied Amber as she took the vial. “What is it for?”

  “You said you were going to see Oonagh. That magic creature lives in a cave in a dangerous mountain guarded by giant raptors, ghastly birds of prey. As long as you are not afraid, however, they will not notice you and nothing will happen. But they strike fear into every creature’s heart, so you will almost certainly panic. Since you must remain impassive to survive, this potion will help you. A single mouthful will suffice, but the effect only lasts for a few minutes — and one of you will have to do without it altogether.”

  “And how will this potion help us?” asked Jade.

  “It will turn you into a being who is neither human nor magical,” replied Amnhor solemnly. “Luckily this effect never lasts longer than five minutes. During this period, the potion will erase all your emotions, from terror to even the feeling of being alive.”

  Jade merely shrugged, while Opal showed no reaction. Only Amber shivered at the healer’s words.

  “Why are these birds so dangerous?”

  “First, they feed on your fear. They savour it, absorb it. Then you stop trying to run away, and that’s when they swoop down to carry you off to their lair and make a meal out of you.”

  “Thanks for the potion,” said Jade, trying not to shudder.

  “Be careful,” advised the healer, “and don’t confide in anyone.”

  The girls promised to heed his words, and Amnhor finally bade them an emotional farewell.

  “Remember that you can always count on me and on everyone in this town.”

  With a smile, Jade, Opal and Amber thanked him for his hospitality and left.

  They rode along quickly, stopping rarely and then only for a short time, and they encountered almost no one. Once again they were travelling through peaceful and sunny countryside. Sometimes they passed through a village or town without seeing a single trace of the Army of Darkness.

  “Why is everything so quiet,” wondered Amber, “when we’ve just left a place in ruins? I thought war was raging through Fairytale.”

  “No,” replied Jade. “While you were with the children and Béah Jardun, back at Amnhor’s house, he explained to us that the Army of Darkness isn’t bothering with the fields and villages for the moment. It’s concentrating on enemy towns, which it destroys methodically, but it isn’t attacking either the knights, or ‘hovalyns’ as people here call them, or places where creatures with higher magic powers live.”

  “But what does the Army of Darkness want?” asked Amber.

  “To rule Fairytale, of course,” said Jade. “They haven’t begun an all-out attack yet, however. They’re moving one step at a time.”

  “Amnhor let it slip that they’re waiting for some Chosen One or something,” chimed in Opal. “But he wouldn’t say any more.”

  The three girls rode all day long. They ate only sparingly and didn’t talk much. That night they stopped on a plain.

  “I’m glad we spent some time in that sealed town,” remarked Jade. “That was our last taste of basic comforts for a while. From now on I’ll be forced to start looking like a dirty, slovenly peasant!”

  When she heard that, Amber stiffened a little and bit her lower lip to help hide her irritation. In doing so, she noticed that her aching cut had disappeared, doubtless thanks to Amnhor.

  This time they passed a pleasant evening, chatting animatedly Amber related for the umpteenth time what Béah Jardun had told her, while her two companions listened closely, as if they were hearing the story for the first time, and daydreamt about their own parents. Who were they? Were they still alive? Why had they abandoned them?

  Jade would have liked so much to know about them — yet at the same time, she was bitterly angry with them. Why had they let her go when she was just a baby, and without leaving her anything to remember them by, neither marks of affection, nor memories? She knew they had entrusted her to the Duke of Divulyon to protect her from some “danger” but she couldn’t help thinking that they hadn’t wanted her, that they hadn’t loved her. Deep down, she couldn’t love them or hate them. She found it simpler to believe that they had been the ones who hadn’t loved her. Her true father was the Duke of Divulyon.

  As for Opal, she had never worried about her parents. As a child she had sometimes asked Eugénia and Gina about them, only to receive evasive answers. So she had stopped thinking about them and hadn’t ever truly understood what a mother and father were. Now, for the first time, she found herself really wondering about them, and not finding any answers.

  When it was time to go to sleep, Jade was the only one who lay awake. She felt uncomfortable on that plain, lost in an unfamiliar world. She missed her easy life, her sumptuous palace, the universal admiration she had enjoyed. And she missed the Duke of Divulyon. Even if he wasn’t her father, he had watched over her and loved her more than anyone. Was he thinking of her at that moment? Was he afraid for her?

  “I’m fine… Papa,” she whispered. “One day I’ll come back to see you and tell you how much you matter to me.”

  She felt reassured, as if the duke could hear her affectionate words. After all, why not?

  Despite missing the easiness of her old life, Jade was actually enjoying her adventure. She was discovering ideas she’d never dreamt of, learning to use powers she would never have believed she possessed. She loved finding herself in situations where she could flirt with danger and challenge the unexpected.

  Feeling hungry, she rose, brushed off her clothes, and went over to their saddlebags of provisions. Without knowing why, all of a sudden she felt ill: her vision blurred and her legs almost gave way beneath her. After shivering for a moment, she managed to get a grip on herself.

  And she was sure of it: there in the distance was the indistinct silhouette of a horseman. Jade took off immediately, running at top speed and cursing herself for not having jumped on a horse. She watched the shadow slip away and realised that she would never catch it.

  The next morning Jade was eager to tell the others about the excitement they had missed.

  “Did you actually feel sick because of him?” asked Amber thoughtfully.

  “Yes. For a moment, I felt nauseous and couldn’t see a thing. I almost fainted.”

  “Well then, he’s an enemy,” concluded Amber bitterly.

  “To add to our list,” drawled Jade.

  After a breakfast of rolls and fruit, the girls rode off, urging their mounts to keep up a fast pace.

  Lost in thought, Amber kept going over what Béah Jardun had told her, as though she might have missed some tiny detail. She remembered Jean Losserand’s good, kind face and wondered why he hadn’t told her anything at all about her past. She would have liked so much to hear about her mother…

  Jade and Opal guessed what was bothering Amber and tried to distract her, but without success.

  Around noon, the girls stopped in the welcome shade of a tree. For some reason they felt uneasy, but they ate their lunch, trying to be frugal with their provisions. As they were about to set out again, Opal pointed to a far-off grove of trees.

  “Look, over there! I think I see the horseman.”

  A black-clad figure could just be seen in the distance. The girls gathered their things together at once and mounted their horses, but the mysterious horseman had already vanished.

  Riding along, the girls could think of nothing but their unknown enemy, and although not one of them admitted it, he terrified them.

  The Thirteenth Councillor smiled in the darkness. His face was cruel, stam
ped by the horrendous power of evil. His plan was working beautifully, and this time he was in control of everything. Opal hadn’t died after all. Since the three Stones of the Prophecy had taken refuge in Fairytale, he could no longer reach them by telepathy, but that didn’t bother him. He had come up with something even more satisfying.

  He cackled in the silence.

  At his signal a golden screen floating in the air hummed into life, showing the image of a grim man in an elegant, jet-black uniform, his face seamed with scars. He had blue eyes, black hair, and a fearsome appearance.

  “Ah! It’s you, Thirteenth Councillor,” said the man on the screen in a harsh voice. “I have sent one of my horsemen. Do not worry, all is well.”

  “I have every confidence in you, Soldier. But one of your men — is that wise?”

  “He is no longer a man. He is a soldier of Darkness. He will not fail.”

  “Very well.”

  “He is watching them. For the moment, everything is proceeding as planned.”

  “Don’t forget that the decisive moment is drawing near.”

  “I will not forget, Thirteenth Councillor. When that moment arrives, be prepared. Our victory depends on you.”

  “It is not for you to remind me of that.”

  The Thirteenth Councillor gestured to break off communication. The news was good, but he was irritated by that soldier of Darkness; he was the only one who dared to speak to the leader as an equal. There was nothing to be done about that for the moment, however, because he still needed the soldier to destroy the Stones so the Council of Twelve could triumph.

  This time he was certain of it: his plan could not fail.

  PARIS, PRESENT DAY

  I’d begun telling myself that I could live, that I had the right to live. I knew that I could not possibly command Death to back off and leave me alone, but I enjoyed believing that I could. My reality merged with my dream. Naively, I thought that if I begged her to spare me, Death, as a creature endowed with some feeling, would listen to me and go on her way. After all, why couldn’t Death be on strike? Why wouldn’t she allow herself to be moved by my distress? But then I would let my tears flow freely, and when I wasn’t sleeping, I would cry — from rage, despair, sadness and fear. I tried to convince myself that one day I would not wake up any more, that I would have moved into my dream, that I would live there, and be happy. If I really wanted this, if I believed it with all my strength, maybe it was possible that this insane wish would come true — and I could cross over into a fairy tale?

  Every night I would plunge once more into the magical world of my dream. I lived it in my own way. The images, the emotions belonged as much to me as to the characters living in this unreal world.

  I spent my days hoping that the dream would come back while I was asleep. A shrill, disagreeable voice kept suggesting nastily that I was fooling myself with illusions. I knew this, but I wouldn’t let myself think this dream wasn’t real.

  And I did feel hope. Again. As I’d never allowed myself to hope before. Memories surfaced from the depths of my past. I’d worked so hard to bury them deep down, but now here they were, arrogant, as wounding and splendid as ever.

  First the images rushed in. I tried in vain to drive them off, to return them to the void where I’d thought I’d locked them away. But they stayed right there, lively, dancing, vividly coloured, whirling before me. I understood then that the only way for me to get rid of them was to face up to them. I remember starting to cry. Then I looked at them, those images, those ghosts from the past.

  The first to return were my parents. Tears coursed down my flushed cheeks. My parents were dead. And I couldn’t change a thing. Their image kept nudging me, though: smiling, affectionate, treacherous. It made me believe it was real, so I wept frantically. My parents were there before me, laughing, teasing me, cherishing me. I was Joa once more. I remember screaming to chase away those images and they left, troubled, frightened, but I knew that they’d be back, that they’d continue to torment me…

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The Nameless One’s Past

  THE GHIBDULS SHOWED the Chosen One and Elfohrys around their domain, which turned out to be an unassuming, almost shabby village. The buildings were essentially constructed of wood and most of them were rather rickety. Some were actually falling to pieces.

  “We’re not a race of craftsmen,” a Ghibdul explained humbly to the hovalyn. “Our talents lie in telepathy and in battle, but in nothing else. Ours is a rudimentary civilisation.”

  Still, the Chosen One and Elfohrys were very impressed. The Ghibduls proved to be gracious hosts, and despite their threatening manners and appearance, they could be pleasant if they so chose. The hovalyn was treated with more respect than he had ever encountered before, and was greeted in the street with deference and admiration.

  He remained among them for more than a week, since the magic creatures kept asking him to prolong his stay and he did not wish to disappoint them.

  The two visitors were given one of the prettiest wood cabins, decorated with a few carved designs, where they slept on beds of green moss under covers woven from leaves.

  The food was delicious and each meal was a banquet prepared in honour of the Chosen One. They served him fresh meat, vegetables, fruits he had never seen before. The Ghibduls hunted all day in the Endless Forest expressly for him, bringing home the finest game. The women went out to gather wild berries and selected the tastiest fruits and vegetables from their kitchen gardens.

  The Nameless One had changed. There was a new maturity in his face, and his eyes had lost some of their sadness. From now on, even though his name and his past were still a mystery to him, he was the Chosen One: he had an identity. He knew that thousands of people were awaiting him, that there was a place for him among his fellow creatures. Yet still he longed to recover his memory, so that he might be whole again.

  When the time came for him to leave, an eminent Ghibdul sage came to see him.

  “Hovalyn,” he said gravely, “we cannot keep you here any longer. You must accomplish great things. But to find your true self, you must go and see Oonagh.”

  “I know,” replied the knight.

  “Be careful, for the fiendish raptors of fear rule where Oonagh lives. Take this to protect yourself.” The Ghibdul handed him two green vines from which hung small black spheres. “These are amulets,” he explained. “One is for you, the other for your friend. Do not place them around your necks until you see the birds of prey. For one hour, these enchanted pendants will protect you from fear, and then will vanish.”

  “I thank you,” said the hovalyn sincerely.

  “You do not yet know what your true role is,” continued the Ghibdul with a sigh. “But do not forget that when you tell others that you are the Chosen One, you will provoke as much hatred as you will happiness.”

  The young man nodded.

  “A few of our warriors will accompany you to the edge of the forest,” said the Ghibdul. “We will also give you two wild horses. Alas, they are not magical, but you will find them strong and sturdy.”

  The Chosen One thanked him on behalf of himself and Elfohrys, with whom he left the Ghibduls’ lair the same day. They set off into the forest carrying provisions given to them by the village women and accompanied by Ghibdul warriors who flew alongside them.

  The travellers had to halt frequently to allow their escort to rest. The deeper they went into the forest, the narrower grew the paths, and dry branches sometimes whipped across their faces. The Ghibduls tried to make the time pass agreeably, but they could do nothing about the forest.

  “You’re still quite a distance from Oonagh,” said one of the magic creatures. “Once you leave here, you’ll be at least two weeks’ journey from your destination.”

  “I think I know the route we must follow,” replied the hovalyn.

  “It isn’t dangerous. That’s the safest part of Fairytale, and it harbours the least magic.”

  “Neverthe
less, watch out for the Army of Darkness,” warned another Ghibdul. “Even here, we know it has returned. And you must keep in mind how powerful and savage it is.”

  At sunset, they reached the edge of the forest.

  “Our paths separate here,” said a Ghibdul. “Do not forget, Chosen One, that we await your return.”

  Then one of the warriors took from his pack the pearl-encrusted casket the hovalyn had forgotten to reclaim.

  “Take back what is yours.”

  As he put away the casket, the Chosen One reflected ruefully that he still didn’t know what it was for.

  “Farewell,” he said to the Ghibduls. “Thank you for everything.”

  “Goodbye,” they replied.”We will meet again soon!”

  Elfohrys and the Nameless One emerged from the forest. Exhausted by their journey, they stretched out on the cool grass and went to sleep.

  After awaking, they ate hurriedly, remounted, and swiftly rode off.

  “Well, Nameless,” said Elfohrys, “now that you’ve learnt you’re the Chosen One, what do you think about it?”

  “I know that I have a role to fulfil, even though I’m not yet sure what it is. But I feel different. I’ve found a new meaning to the days that lie ahead.”

  Elfohrys smiled to himself.

  The surrounding countryside was still asleep. Far in the distance rose the snow-capped peaks where Oonagh dwelt.

  The two companions talked at length, discussing their remarkable stay with the Ghibduls and the uncertain future before them.

  The Nameless One had finally found a friend in his companion and spoke to him with easy familiarity.

  “But what about you — what are you seeking?” he asked him suddenly. “Why did you decide to help me?”

  “I think that I can tell you now,” replied Elfohrys. “Many people despaired of ever seeing the Chosen One appear. They are waiting for you. You are important. So I decided to find you, to lead you to discover who you are. And I succeeded.”