Keeper of Prophecy: A Fatal Empire Short

I have never put much stock in prophecy. I may serve as the goddess’s loyal daughter, but I make my own way in this world.

In an empire beset by violence and intrigue, to put your faith in anything beyond your own two hands means almost certain death. The blood embedded beneath my fingernails confirms it.

…But some destinies, you cannot outrun.

Meet Raziel’s mother Moriah, and learn her secret past in this short story prequel from the richly imagined Fatal Empire fantasy series by the author of the World of Lasniniar series, Jacquelyn Smith.

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I have never understood the need for prophecy. I suppose my beliefs have been shaped by my upbringing—an unacknowledged daughter of a pureblood noble, by way of his common-born concubine. The conquering nobles who have ruled the Dharakmeni Empire for generations brought their staunch atheism with them and did everything they could to ram it down the natives’ throats. Almost all of the temples dedicated to the various aspects of the Thousand-Faced Goddess now stand empty and abandoned, echoing monuments of a forgotten time. Aside from the Keeper of Secrets, only the most harmless of the goddess’s aspects have remained unscathed. The invaders quickly learned that the fastest way to spurn those you have conquered to rise up against you is to try to wipe out their belief system in its entirety.

In any event, I have never given the idea of prophecy much thought. I have always believed in making my own way in the world. It certainly wasn’t on my mind as I fled through the Imperial City in search of sanctuary, with blood embedded beneath my fingernails and tears staining my cheeks. Aside from my dedication ceremony to the Keeper of Secrets, I have never felt the presence of the goddess in my daily life. I certainly did not feel it now as the cobblestones pelted beneath my booted feet.

Some of my hair had come loose from its braid to rise in tangles around my mouth and eyes—windblown tentacles of blond-streaked brown. I tugged a stray lock from my mouth and wrinkled my nose when I caught the coppery tang of blood on my tongue as it grazed my soiled fingers. I tucked my hair as much beneath the hood of my cloak as possible and forced myself to slow to a walk.

My heart hammered in my ears. I made a concentrated effort to slow my breathing. The heavy thumping seemed to drown out the sounds of the city around me—the murmur of voices from passers-by, grumbled curses as someone in servant livery elbowed their way past, and the occasional bark of a stray dog—all which echoed against the high buildings that crowded the narrow street. Both horses and nobles were uncommon here in the poorer quarter of the city, where an undercurrent of spoiled food and the occasional waft of stale urine hung on the air.

I ducked into the shadows of a nearby alley as my gaze swept the street for signs I had been noticed. The ammonia stink of urine intensified and I switched to breathing through my mouth. I had drawn too much attention to myself. I should have known better than to run. If I was lucky, no one was looking for me yet. But it was only a matter of time before the City Guard began their search.

They would start here. The idea of a noble committing a crime could never be publicly acknowledged as a possibility—even though the nobles made fatal jabs at one another every day as part of their political intrigues. But poison and assassins were considered part of the game. If nothing could be proved, no crime had been committed. Commoners, on the other hand, were fair game.

Even though I straddled both worlds, I had been raised in my mother’s bower, in a manse owned by my noble father. My blond-streaked hair marked me as a potential by-blow of an Abrieli noble. Most commoners would be quick to cast suspicion my way when the inevitable guards arrived, especially if it meant avoiding it themselves.

As soon as I was satisfied I had regained my composure, and that no one was watching me from outside the alley, I slipped back onto the street. I trailed in the wake of a crowd of rough-looking men, who worked at the docks, judging from their fish and brine scent. They talked loudly among themselves with good-natured cheer, clearly happy to be done for the day. I allowed them to lead me toward a tavern that bore the name of The Lusty Cock. A smile tugged at my lips at the sight of the familiar sign, painted with a crowing rooster.

The men had unwittingly allowed me to follow them exactly where I wanted to go. My senses were alert, but no one seemed to notice me trailing behind my boisterous companions—a lean shadow in a hooded cloak.

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