Prologue, Part One
Abrina rehearsed her morning routine with practiced steps and whispered counts in the dusty courtyard as the dawning sun rose above the temple wall behind her. She cast a long shadow, the outline of her figure a blur. Her mind fully concentrated on the movements of her legs, her hands, her spear, she destroyed foe after imaginary foe.
Every day, Abrina practiced. She had been practicing for decades—alone, with instructors, with sparring partners, with friends. She reveled in the soreness in her limbs, the heat on her neck, the sweat on her skin. The Games, sponsored by her temple, would begin the following week and drew crowds to their small town of Narim from miles around. Abrina knew she was a favorite, partly due to the elven blood that ran through her veins. In the predominantly human region of U’tep, a fertile valley nestled within the arms of a great desert, a half-elf was a wonder and a curiosity. A half-elf that epitomized the virtues of Ninurta, the god of agriculture and athletics, was a rarity that people from throughout U’tep flocked to see.
In mid-attack, her spear thrust to the side, Abrina froze. Wisps of her hair fell over her eyes, beading sweat just beginning to roll down her temples. Her muscles bulged, her hands tightened around the shaft of her weapon, and her chest expanded and contracted with deep, though controlled, breaths. Another long shadow strode across the courtyard, strong, purposeful.
Relaxing her stance, Abrina lowered her spear, point to the ground, and turned to face her elder.
His hair was gray, his weathered face etched with wrinkles, but his intense emerald eyes were sharp, his back straight. He wore the clerical vestments of their order, the shirt beneath his cloak dyed a green several shades darker than his eyes. She reached out to him, and he took her hands, enveloping her in a tight hug of greeting. They pulled back and she smiled.
“Why, good morning, Elder Kevur,” she said, wiping her brow with the back of a dusty arm. “What brings you to the training grounds?”
Kevur smiled in return and motioned her to follow him. “I came to see you. Let’s go inside and talk. I imagine you could use a glass of water?” He walked to the edge of the courtyard, into the shade, and held the door open for her.
She followed, puzzled but intrigued. Elder Kevur was the highest ranking cleric of their temple of Ninurta, and he rarely spoke with those of their order individually since gaining that status. He led services, was the speaker at the games, began dinners with a toast and even blessed the clerics in their affirmation ceremony. Kevur spoke with everyone at the temple, of course, but he rarely invited anyone to his office speak with privately.
Elder Kevur had invited her into his office only once before, when she had been only a child and he a recent cleric of Ninurta. When he was younger, he led the classes to educate supplicants who wished to become indoctrinated into the faith of Ninurta and Abrina had been a student during his first year. It was only a few days before Abrina fund herself sitting in the chair opposite his ornately carved desk of mahagony and squirmed under his severe and reproachful gaze. She had tripped a boy in practice when his back was turned. Abrina had been older than he, but he had the gall to insult her style in the middle of their lessons. Entangling her spear between his legs and roughly jerking him off balance had been tremendously satisfying, but she wasn’t entirely sure it had been worth the disappointment of Elder Kevur.
Abrina was older, now, and Kevur wore a smile instead of a frown, but still she fidgeted her seat, tapping the side of the glass of cool water he had given her, as Kevur retrieved an empty scroll case on his desk and began to unstopper its ends.
“This,” he said, pulling a piece parchment from a drawer, “is a missive from the Master Crafter.”
Abrina’s eyes widened. “From Ea Himself?”
Kevur paused and raised an eyebrow. There was a smile behind the crinkling of his eyes. She sunk back into the chair, her face flushed with embarrassment. Abrina wondered if he remembered the last time she had been in this spot. She figured her did; those eyes saw into her soul.
“No,” he said, “from the temple. From Helena, the head cleric at the Temple of Ea, actually.” He rolled up the scroll and tied a ribbon around its center. “A great doom comes, and we are to deliver a message to the city of Cauldron. Immediately.”
Kevur paused a moment and sighed. He held a small bowl of wax to the flame of the candle on his desk and poured several drops to the scroll. He reached for the stamp engraved with his personal insignia and pushed it into the wax, sealing the scroll. He picked it up and held the missive in his aged hands, as if weighing the consequences of the portent it contained, then slid it into the scrollcase and replaced the stopper.
He held out the scrollcase to Abrina across the desk and motioned to her to take it.
Abrina took the scrollcase he offered without much thought. After setting it in her lap and contemplating the meaning of what Kevur had said, the realization that she was to be the messenger fell upon her like one of their oxen collapsing in the mid-day heat.
“But, Elder!” she exclaimed, sitting up abruptly. “The games! They’re next week! I won’t be back for at least . . .” She paused, not knowing where this city of Cauldron was, let alone how many days of travel it would take to reach.
“Two weeks, Abrina, maybe more.”
“More?”
Kevur shot her a wilting glance.
Abrina nodded, slumping back into her chair. “Yes, Elder. I understand. No more whining.” She would miss the games for the first time in twenty years. She looked forward to besting the other students of Ninurta every year, not to mention the arrogant storm clerics. She could do more damage with a stick than they could with their warhammers. Every year she participated and heard the crowds roar her name, smelled the exotic meats and spices from the vendors outside the arena, saw the magnificent banners waving in the welcoming breeze. She would miss it all.
“Thank you, Abrina,” Kevur replied. “The games are to keep us ready for the times Ninurta requires us the most. This is one of those times. This is where our faith has led us, and Ninurta will guide you on your journey. I don’t know what we will do without your help, not to mention your arm, at the festival, but Ninurta has called on us, and it seems he has other plans for you.”
Abrina stood and grasped the spear, the weapon favored by her patron. “I will not fail you, Elder.”
Kevur smiled wanly and rose. “I don’t think you will.”
