of the Icarii doubted their existence.
Every few score years the Charonites gave vent to their urge to see once again the star-lit night, to feel the soft wind of the OverWorld in their faces, to smell the scent of flowers and of the damp leaves that lined the floor of the forest, and to sail the lively waters of the Nordra, so different from the still waterways.
On this night, scores of Charonites sang and danced as they climbed the well leading to the OverWorld; the Charonites loved to dance and the figures carved about the walls of the well inspired them to ever more joyous efforts.
Once in the cave they lifted the flat-bottomed boats from their storage racks and, still laughing and singing, cast them into the water of the inlet that led to the Nordra as it flowed through the Avarinheim. The Avarinheim of three thousand years past was a much greater and more magical Avarinheim than the one that stood now; then the axes of the Seneschal had not wielded their destruction.
Five Charonites, lagging behind the others, seized the last and smallest boat and, singing, launched it into the water. They leapt in and worked their magic, and the boat glided effortlessly along the inlet, then slipped into the Nordra. The five were ecstatic with the feel of the soft night air and the immensity of the sky above them, and their singing increased in joy and reverence as their boat sailed further down the Nordra.
Every so often a dark face peered at them from the forest that lined the Nordra – the Avar, woken from their slumber by the sounds of the Charonite merriment, crept from their sleeping skins to watch in awe as the Charonites slid past.
As the Charonites were wont to do, the five eventually moored their boat to a spotted willow that, heavy with age, drooped its branches deep into the water. Then they slipped ashore, planning to dance unrestrained along the corridors of the Avarinheim.
But sitting on the banks of the Nordra was a strange man – Icarii-featured but wingless – with a dismal face.
The five stopped to ask what was wrong, for although the Charonites preferred to keep their distance from other races, they were not an unkind people, and this man obviously needed their comfort.
The man sighed and spoke, and what he related wiped the joy from their faces. The man, this strange man, spoke of a time in the future.
“Tencendor will already wear the terrible legacy of a millennium of hatreds, but the Destroyer’s one purpose will be to grind what is left of Tencendor into the dust. He hates, and his one desire is to give vent to his hate. To destroy.”
The five, all thought of dance and song gone from their minds, asked the man how he knew these dreadful tidings.
“The burden of prophecy weighs heavily on my soul and it consumes my days and my nights,” he said, and he stood up. “Soon I shall retire to solitude and commit what I have seen into words of power and magic.”
The five stared solemnly at the Prophet, awed by the responsibility he had taken upon his shoulders.
The Prophet sighed again, and the five could see how much care and pain he laboured under. They respected him deeply, although they did not envy him, for they of all races perhaps best understood the power and compulsions of prophesying.
“Listen,” he said, and then he intoned the Prophecy of the Destroyer.
The five moaned as they heard him speak, and leaned on each other’s shoulders, and wept. They were accustomed to lives and thoughts of introspection and beauty and great mystery, but the Prophet’s words destroyed the peace and harmony of their minds. How would they be able to resume their carefree existence after this? The words of the Prophecy would never leave them.
“The burden of a prophecy is a hard one to carry,” one of the five said, and he took his wife’s hand for comfort.
“That is so,” the Prophet agreed.
Another of the five, one of two brothers, spoke. “And prophecies are terribly fragile. They prophesy only what might be, not what is certain.”
“They can be easily bent out of shape,” his brother added.
The youngest of the Charonites, a sensual and beautiful woman, now spoke. “And while the Prophecy indicates that this StarMan will reunite Tencendor, recreate its beauty despite the Destroyer’s hate, his victory is not certain.”
The Prophet waited.
Slowly the five spoke in turn.
“A prophecy is like …”
“A garden …”
“That is full of the promise of beauty …”
“And dreams never-ending …”
“But that can, if neglected …”
“Or left unattended …”
“Fall into barrenness …”
“And sorrow …”
“And despair …”
“And death.”
The Prophet took a deep breath, and the younger woman realised for the first time what a handsome face he had.
The most experienced of the Charonites noted the Prophet’s easy way with power, and thought he might not be all that he appeared, or that he might be more than he appeared. But he held his peace and, later, it would be he who would share most of the Prophet’s secrets.
But for now the Prophet expelled his breath and spoke. “I need a gardener. Someone who is prepared to serve the Prophecy, and see to its needs. Someone who will wait for he who is to appear, and guide and guard his steps.”
“I will do it,” cried one of the Charonites, prepared to leave her life of contemplation for the service of the Prophecy.
“And I!”
“Both of us would serve,” cried the brothers in unison.
“And I, too, would serve this Prophecy,” said the last gravely, and the Prophet nodded.
“It was the power of the Prophecy that led me here this night to meet with you. You will be my Sentinels, and to you will I entrust the Prophecy over the coming ages.”
The five never returned to their UnderWorld home. They stayed with the Prophet and accepted the secrets he entrusted to them and the transformations he wrought in them. They lost their previous identities and forms and became the Sentinels, and they became closer to each other than they had ever been before.
The other Charonites mourned them, but, with the other mystical races of Tencendor, they came to know of the Prophecy and understood the cause to which their brothers and sisters had been lost. They contemplated the mysteries that the Prophecy had created and prayed that the garden would survive the storm that would eventually engulf it.
Now the five Sentinels sat in their circle, hands tightly held, needing the contact and warmth and love. For three thousand years they had waited. Over the past two years they had guided and watched and waited for the Prophecy to work itself through. There had been times of warmth and laughter and there had been times of deep sadness and loss, but the Sentinels had been content, knowing that they did their best for the Prophet and the Prophecy.
“The Prophecy moves apace,” Jack said into the silence.
“It slides to its conclusion,” Yr responded, her voice sad. Of them all, perhaps Yr would lose the most in the coming months. She had been the freest, and she had enjoyed her freedom.
“And we slide to our –”
“Enough, Ogden!” Jack cautioned. “We all knew what our service to the Prophecy would entail and there is no need to voice our fate now. But the fact remains that, as soon as Axis moves north towards his confrontation with Gorgrael, we will have to begin our final duties.”
There, the words were said.
Yr nodded jerkily, and a moment later the other three nodded.