Page 89 of The Shadowed Oracle
“You said you were tired of feeling ignorant,” Callinora said. “So I had my maids mark a few of the history books and old texts. All in the common tongue, or translations for the older books. Just there. And there. And, well, you’ll see.” She gestured to the bookcases, where whittled bookmarks poked out from various spots in the shelving, indicating where she might look.
Ingrid didn’t know what to say.
“Come now, Dean,” Callinora said shortly. “Our gallant Knight of Door Opening. Let’s leave Ingrid to her studying."
Dean scratched at his beard, hesitant to leave. “Good?” he asked Ingrid simply.
“Better.”
“That’s what I was hoping to hear.”
“Now get lost,” she murmured, jerking a thumb to the side. “I’ve got work to do.”
It only took a few hours before the floor was littered with books. Stacks of them were piled twelve high at her feet, arranged in a circle she’d inadvertently created, like a wall trapping her in the chair and forcing her to read all night by the fireplace.
The first book she’d plucked from the shelves was titledWielders, Witchcraft, and Wayward Prophecy, hoping to get some insight into her supposed powers. She learned about all manner of Spell-crafters, Magi, glyph-painters, symbol scholars, elemental magic wielders, but nothing about her own kind.
Not until the very last chapter.
The research done by the author, it seemed, was exhaustive but mostly speculative. The only actionable bits appeared whenthe author spoke of Izadora, the first Oracle in Ealis, all those thousands of years ago.
Queen Izadora of the East, the pages read,had as common an upbringing as any of the extraordinary Viator written about in these pages. She’d been born to impecunious farmers in the rolling stretch of unclaimed green land that would later become part of Seerside. She grew up tilling the field and breeding livestock, primed to take over her family business. But by the age of thirteen, she began to show proclivities toward magic that, at that point, had never been seen in Ealis, let alone named. As deep as I have researched the histories, searching for the earliest documentation on wielders of the age, I have, alas, found myself terribly wanting. Before the great Queen, there were only fairy tales of gifted individuals, elemental all, and none nearly as noteworthy as Izadora. This might lead even the most learned historians to assume she was one of, if not the first, fortunate few to be blessed with Ealis’ gifts.
Ingrid read on, having to double-back a few times due to the speed at which she was devouring the paragraphs. The chapter as a whole felt like a history book written too distantly from the time period in which it took place. It was mostly filled with generic details documenting the queen’s rise and her many battles in the first Great War.
She read on hopefully, gratefully, ultimately finding only one sentence that offered any insight applicable to her motive. A quote from the great queen herself, transcribed from her speech at the conclusion of the war by one of her followers.
A wielder divided internally will never be whole enough to send their power into the external world.
Ingrid wrote the passage down in a small journal Callinora had provided her. Underlined it. Pondered it for a few minutes. Then decided it was too vague to be of any help at that juncture,quickly picked up another book, and read until she could read no longer.
A leather-bound, rather dusty tome titledKillian Portnalius’ Prophecies and Fairy Tales: One Wielder’s Dream of Peacewas plopped open over Ingrid’s lap, a fingernail holding her spot as she slept. She intended to read all night and well into the next day, yet after so much information in such a short amount of time, her eyelids couldn’t remain open any longer.
Her rest was deep, with small, slow breaths. The flames from the stone fireplace bounced off her serene features, her chest barely moving. Dreams, airy and fleeting began to flutter around her peaceful mind. Scenes of tall trees and bright nights, of cozy cloudy weather and the smell after a rainstorm. She dreamt of Ealis. She dreamt of San Bruno. She dreamt of Franky. And she dreamt of Dean.
He’d come to her room, sitting in a large chair by the balcony, as if he’d flown in from the sky and sat down to watch her sleep. She called out to him, but got no response.
“Dean,” she called out to him again.
Dean.
No answer. She could only see his silhouette. The fire’s light didn’t catch his face, and that shadowed figure of his body didn’t move, no matter how loud she called his name.
Dean?
He was so still. So unnervingly quiet. The silence draped over her like broiling black smoke seeping into the pores of her skin. And then she realized… this was not Dean. The fear caused a sudden lucidity to strike her. She knew she was dreaming now, but her body was still submerged in it, ice cold and prickling despite the burning flame nearby. She tried to move, to stand, to do anything, but could only shoot her eyes around the room in protest.
Help.
I can’t move…
I can’t…
Something else dawned on her then. She hadn’t been speaking at all, hadn’t been able to call out. She was onlythinkingit. The words were simply echoing in her mind. She couldn’t even move her mouth.Her lips had been closed tight, her neck frozen, feet and arms weighed down. But still she tried to speak. Even the smallest of whimpers would do. Just a rumble in her vocal cords. If she could take some control of her body in the dream, she thought, then that would shake her awake.
But nothing worked.
What is happening to me?she called out from the front of her mind.Why can’t I move? Why won’t I wake up?
