The Blood of the Lamb- Another Excerpt

A crack of light peeked from around the doorway. The girl pushed upon the door, widening the crack into a brilliant beam.

A head of gray bent over a tome, writing running delicately across the page. A beard draped over his knees and brushed the cave floor. He glanced up from his work, peering at them from under bushy eyebrows, the feathery pen never once ceasing its infinite scratching against the paper. “Yes, Cora? What do you want?”

The girl, her eyes never rising to meet her master’s, replied, “The prince is here, seeking your audience, Sir.”

“Very well,” he said, putting the final strokes on his manuscript and laying his pen aside. “You may go.”

“Thank you, my master. I take my leave.” She backed out of the room. The old one’s gaze traced her steps, waiting until the door clanged its tell-tale message and retreating steps were heard.

The man unfolded his hands. “Come, sit. We are alone now- tell me what’s troubling you.”

Castor dragged the chair back from its place and seated himself upon it. Hand diving into his pocket, he extracted the medallion, watching its golden glitter as the lamplight leapt off its surface, dancing to the flicker of its flame.

For a moment, the man stared at it, drawing in shallow, slow breaths. His heart stilled, revived hope filling his soul. Wrapping his fist about it, he held it up, running a trembling finger over its jagged edge, tracing the peaks and valleys with reverent incredulity.

His eyes scanned the boy’s. “Where did you get this?”

Uneasiness cut into Castor, piercing him suddenly with the sharpness lining the prophet’s words. “A girl. I found her on the way to the Lydacian palace. She claims to be a peasant.”

The man was quiet fro a moment more, then laid the medallion down on the des, eyes still riveted to its glittering intrigue. “She might be more than she seems. Have you heard the legend of the half-medallions, lad?”

“No.”

A smile tilted the corners of cracked lips. “I suspected not. It is a closely-guarded tale, one only known amongst those of us called to my work. It is a most sacred secret, the most sacred of its kind…”

A question rose in the glassy blue of the man’s eyes. And, as Castor probed into their deepest depths, he saw a sea frothing with events far preceding the days of his father. A tumultuous sea- wrought with weary and hard times. And yet, every crease, every corner of that old face bespoke a kindly wisdom- one of which the wise only dream to have.

Then, slowly, the man said, “I think I can trust you. Yes, I think I will trust you.”

The chair screeched as it grated against the ground, giving the gentleman just enough room to stand. Turning about, he moved towards a bookshelf sprawling the breadth and length of a wall. Incohesive muttering tumbled from his tongue as he scanned his scrolls.

Castor waited in trained patience, his expression betraying neither thought nor emotion. Carved by the teachings of his father and etched with battles abounding, it remained in its staid state.

“Ah,” the old one said, pulling a large scroll from a lower shelf. “Here it is.”

A thud proclaimed the landing of the scroll upon the desk. Its parchment yellowed and language of old, it stretched out before him- a bottomless source of information.

“What does it say?”

The man looked up, surprise shining from behind his spectacles. “Why? Can’t you read it at all? What? No?! And I thought the palace school was the finest in Sleyvink!”

“As it is, Sir, but we have no need for ancient writing.”

“No need for it? Ahh, but there, my boy, you are wrong.” He re-seated himself, leaning over the table. Pointing towards the words written, he resumed. “Here, with these words and in this tongue, is the secret to life and the secret to death. Scratched upon these papers, readable only to those who are learned in the language of people populating this earth long ago, are instructions to either bring about the greatest good or the greatest evil.”

Gripping the desk, Castor said, “What is it? And what has it to do with my friend?”

The man shook his head. “I cannot tell you. None who are alive can. But I can tell you this- there is a prophecy, begot centuries ago, that says when the bearers of the two halves of a single medallion give their lives for the salvation of the world- then there will be peace.”

He placed the half-medallion into Castor’s hand. “Keep it safe. And watch for those who wish to take it from you, for through them, the world will be doomed to destruction.”

The boy nodded, rising from his seat. “Thank you. I shall do just that.”