###

  After two days on horseback, Ryan spied the ramparts of Castle Riverton rising from the surrounding grasslands. Flying high over the training grounds were the two dragons, Ruby and Pyre, that had become part of his extended family.

  And to think that less than three years ago, those two were eggs.

  In the castle’s shadow stood a small city that had grown up just as quickly as the dragons. What had only recently been an empty field was now a fortified series of connected buildings occupying many acres of land. And even now there were workmen everywhere, many of them dwarves, crawling over the buildings like ants as they inspected the masonry and metalwork.

  But Castle Riverton was not Ryan’s destination. Instead he turned his horse toward a vast expanse of wagons and tents camped a couple miles away. The caravan where he would find his betrothed.

  At the edge of the caravan, two guards came out to greet him. Both slammed their fists against their chests in salute. Ryan bowed his head in acknowledgment and dismounted.

  The older of the two guards stepped forward. “Greetings, young Lord Riverton, Archmage of Trimoria, and betrothed to our princess. Welcome to the domain of Sheikh Honfrion of the Imazighen. I am Tabor, lead guard. Behind me is my second, Khalid.”

  Ryan handed his reins to a hostler who’d come running over from the nearest stable. “You two resemble each other. Do all of Honfrion’s guards hold such a close resemblance?”

  Tabor laughed. “No, Archmage. I’m proud to say that Khalid is also my son.”

  Khalid stepped forward. “If you don’t mind, Lord Archmage, my sheikh asked that I bring you to him upon your arrival.”

  “I was expected?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  As the two guards led Ryan through the caravan’s crowded merchant quarter, Ryan strengthened his shields with the slightest of mental adjustments. He knew that only he could hear the slight buzzing of the shield that clung to him like an invisible second skin.

  The people of the caravan—the Imazighen, Arabelle’s people—murmured, whispered, and stared openly at him as he passed.

  “It’s him! He’s here!”

  “It’s the wizard of prophecy!”

  “The princess is so lucky.”

  This last remark came from a girl with bright red hair. Ryan’s eyes met with hers, and she quickly pulled a veil across her face—but boldly stared right back at him.

  Three dwarves exited a merchant tent with mugs in their hands, and stopped short.

  “I dinna believe it!” said one. “Is dat da Archmage? He glows like a lantern bug with his magic.”

  “Norgeon, shut yer yap!” said another. “He’ll turn you into a mountain pony if you aren’t respectful.”

  The third dwarf laughed. “That’ll be an improvement, I say. Ponies are handsome creatures. Norgeon’s face reminds me of a ogre’s hairy rear end…”

  They left the merchant’s quarter behind, and Tabor and Khalid led Ryan to a large tent with several serious-looking guards posted in front of it, all of whom gave Tabor a brisk salute.

  Tabor turned to Ryan. “Archmage, I’m sure that when you and my sheikh are done, you’ll want to visit with the princess. I will wait here to act as escort.”

  “And I expect you’ll act as chaperone too, right?”

  Tabor failed to hold back a smile. “Archmage, you know our customs. Our princess must be kept under escort whenever feasible. After the marriage ceremony, you too would be of the Imazighen, and deemed an acceptable escort.”

  Ryan placed his hand on Tabor’s shoulder. “I’d expect nothing less. Is the sheikh ready for me?”

  Tabor looked to the posted guards, who nodded. Then Tabor opened the flap and announced Ryan’s arrival.

  From within the tent, a deep voice boomed. “Ryan, come in, come in. Don’t stand out there like a stranger, my son.”

  As Ryan stepped inside, Arabelle’s father, Sheikh Honfrion, greeted him with a clasp of arms and a kiss on each cheek. They sat in the middle of the tent and faced each other.

  Honfrion tore some flatbread in half and handed Ryan a piece. “Young Ryan, our people have long been awaiting this moment.”

  Ryan chewed on the freshly baked bread. “Which moment is that?”

  Honfrion pushed up his sleeves, revealing heavily muscled arms. With a surprisingly light touch, he took Ryan’s hands. “Ryan, my boy. Those in my family have long had visions of the future. Sometimes the events that are seen are wished-for; at other times, they are horrifying. Arabelle’s mother was a particularly strong seer, and Arabelle has such abilities too.”

  He sat back and wiped the sweat from the top of his head with a cloth. “I, too, have visions—though for a long time I willfully blocked them, and only in recent years have they returned.”

  His eyes darted around, as though looking through every corner of the tent. “Ryan, I saw your arrival moments before it happened, and I sent Tabor and Khalid out to retrieve you. It was because of that vision that I knew that I must bring you to this tent, so that you could meet—”

  Honfrion froze in mid-sentence, and his normally dark brown eyes glowed white. Filaments of magic—invisible, Ryan knew, to anyone but him—began swirling around the sheikh’s head and sparking throughout the tent. The energy grew, expanding outward from Honfrion, who remained oblivious to the maelstrom.

  And then the swirling torrent of energy coalesced into a column two feet to the right of Honfrion. A woman stepped from the column, and the sparking magic vanished.

  The woman was ancient. Gray skin, tangled gray hair, growths on her chin. She wore drab gray robes, yet shimmering waves of white magical energy hovered around her.

  “Child of destiny,” she said, “I am here. For you, I am a messenger.”

  Ryan pointed at Honfrion, who was still frozen in place. “What did you do to him?”

  “Do not worry, for I will give you what you need. Once I am gone, time will continue.”

  “Time?”

  The woman stepped forward. “Enough! Listen and watch.”

  The woman closed her eyes, and the tent faded from Ryan’s vision.

  A scene materialized in his mind.

  The night is dark, the only light coming from a campfire in the distance. Four people are gathered around the campfire, all of them wearing modern clothes. Clothes from Ryan’s past.

  Ryan gasped. “That’s my family and me when we first arrived in Trimoria!”

  A few hundred yards away, several of Azazel’s troops huddle together, studying the campfire from a distance.

  “We already know them to be fools, drunk, or unaware of the dangers they face,” said one. “Who creates a campfire so close to the swamp? Swamp cat food or slaver fodder. They deserve to be skewered.”

  “Kirag said we are to try to extract information.”

  “I don’t care what Kirag said—dead is dead. It’s too much trouble capturing people and interrogating them.”

  Though the events of the vision had clearly happened years ago, Ryan’s heart raced in his chest. “We had assassins after us even then? How could they know we’d be there? We didn’t even know we’d arrived in Trimoria yet.”

  Something lands in the midst of the huddled assassins, and a puff of smoke flies into their faces. As one of the men stands, a figure runs by, slashes his throat, and disappears into the night.

  The other assassins choke, and moments later, they collapse. The mysterious figure cautiously returns.

  A woman.

  She glances at the distant campfire, then down at the assassins, and once again at the campfire. She moves quickly, slashing the throats of her victims, their lifeblood forming sticky pools in the grass.

  The mysterious figure stares at her blood-soaked hands. Sobs wrack her body, and she looks up at the sky with familiar eyes…

  “Arabelle!”

  The vision faded, and Ryan’s heart pounded faster than he thought possible. He looked up at the old woman, whose face was an emotionless blank. “Arabelle saved us all?”

  The woman’s glow brightened. “Know that both you and your betrothed are children of destiny. She acts in Seder’s interest, and thus she will always act in your interest as well, for you are Seder’s champion.”

  Her shimmering waves of white energy flared, nearly blinding him, and then fell away, leaving the tent in darkness. Ryan tapped into some of his power and made a ball of sparkling light materialize over his head.

  The old woman had not departed. But now she held something in her arms. An infant boy, wrapped in a brilliant white swaddling cloth.

  She held it out to him. “Seder’s champion, a gift from Seder.”

  Ryan took the child. It had a hint of whiskers and the proportions of a dwarf. “I… I can’t take care of a baby. What am I to do with it?”

  A brilliant white aura shimmered around the infant, and it grew much heavier and larger. The light dimmed, and the infant had aged into a dwarf boy. The boy wriggled out of Ryan’s arms and stomped his hairy feet on the ground.

  He had a full beard now, though thin, and wore billowing white robes. After checking through a series of hidden pockets, he laughed and pulled out a handful of amber dice. He looked up at Ryan.

  “Do you want to play any games?” he asked.

  What in the world is going on?

  Ryan turned to the old woman, but she was already fading away, with a hint of a smile.

  ###

  As the caravan guards escorted the young dwarf toward Castle Riverton, the child whistled merrily while juggling some wooden balls he’d discovered in one of his many pockets. Ryan was still so stunned, all he could do was watch the boy depart.

  Honfrion placed his hand on Ryan’s shoulder. “My vision told me you were going to meet someone strange within my tent, but I didn’t realize he would appear before my eyes in a flash just as I was telling you about him.”

  Honfrion hadn’t even been aware of the time that had passed within the tent. Perhaps because no time had passed. What were the woman’s words?

  When I am gone, time will continue.

  He would have to ask Eglerion about this. Perhaps the lore master would be able to explain what had happened.

  Honfrion saw his worried look. “You did the right thing sending him off to the castle nursery. Clearly he knows no more about his sudden appearance than we do. In fact, it seems all he’s interested in is playing games.”

  A woman called out. “Ryan!”

  As Ryan turned, Arabelle slammed into him in a swirl of flying hair and peals of laughter, knocking him backward. They both fell in the dirt as she placed kisses on his stunned face.

  “Not a very dignified greeting, Arabelle,” said her father, chuckling. “I thought I taught you better.”

  Arabelle’s smile was infectious, and Ryan grinned like a fool as she pulled him to his feet. “Ryan! You were supposed to tell me when you got here!”

  Honfrion cleared his throat. “My flower, that was my fault. I asked the guards to bring him to me so the two of us could speak.”

  Arabelle pulled Ryan away from the crowd that was forming. As always, a handful of guards trailed behind them, including Tabor. She glanced at him and squeezed his hand, the slightest tinge of red coloring her cheeks. And she looked stunning. Her white, form-fitting dress accentuated her athletic build and curves, and it was a brilliant contrast to her dark hair and eyes.

  She pulled him all the way to her tent, but before they could enter, Tabor cleared his throat. “Princess, it wouldn’t be proper for the two of you to be alone.”

  Arabelle huffed. “But I want to speak to Ryan in private. Don’t make me leave the caravan to force the issue, Tabor.”

  The guard scratched at his beard. “I have an idea. Follow me.”

  Moments later, Ryan found himself in an empty corral sitting cross-legged in front of Arabelle. The corral allowed them to talk face-to-face in private, while the guards were still able to watch them from a distance.

  “Well, I suppose this will have to do,” Arabelle said.

  “It’s fine.” Ryan gave her hands a squeeze. “I respect your people’s customs. I’m just happy to see you. I don’t care where we are.”

  Arabelle’s eyes glistened with unshed tears. “Ryan, I have something to confess…”

  ###

  As Arabelle’s tale unfolded, Ryan soon realized that Trimoria’s prophecies didn’t involve only the Riverton brothers. Apparently Seder, the same spirit that had taken his family from a summer vacation in the state of Arizona, and led him to become the Archmage of a land called Trimoria, had also set events in motion to ensure that Arabelle received training in the use of weapons and poisons by none other than Castien, the elf sword master.

  Finally Ryan understood how she’d shown such miraculous abilities in the knife-throwing competition a few years back.

  But it was the last part of her tale that was truly difficult for her to reveal. As she related her view of the very same circumstances that Ryan had just now witnessed himself in a vision, her tears flowed freely, and the guilt and shame was plain on her face.

  Ryan barely let her finish before blurting out what he’d just seen in her father’s tent—and explained that the actions she was confessing to had saved his family’s lives. And when he made it clear to her that he felt all of her actions were justified, and that there was no reason why she should feel ashamed, a torrent of emotions erupted from her as she threw her arms around him and wept, years of pent-up guilt and uncertainty draining from her.

  The sun had set during her tale, and even as they held each other, Arabelle’s handmaiden came walking toward them, torch in hand. No doubt that signaled it was time for Arabelle to go.

  Before Ryan could lose his opportunity, he leaned in to Arabelle’s ear and whispered, “I love you.”

  She hooked him by the back of the neck and pulled him in for a kiss.

  Miriam cleared her throat. “Princess, it’s nightfall. I’m here to remind you that it is now seven days before your wedding, and you know that it’s bad luck to see your betrothed the week before your wedding.”

  Ryan stood and pulled Arabelle to her feet. “I’ll see you in a week, Mrs. Riverton.”

  Arabelle stood on the tips of her toes and whispered into his ear, “I can’t wait.”

  Author’s Note

  Well, that’s the end of Tools of Prophecy, and I sincerely hope you enjoyed it.

  That’s book three of a four-part epic tale.

  I should note that even though this story will end at the culmination of Lords of Prophecy, this saga doesn’t end there. There is much more. Circles within circles, my friends.

  By the end of this year, it is my intent to have published three books that go beyond the end of this series. It will be a new beginning, but with some familiar faces and ancient enemies. I’ll tease more in the author’s note for the next book.

  For those of you who aren’t familiar with where this tale originated, I’ll note that when I wrote this story, years ago, I never intended for it to really be published. You see, I’m a stuffy science researcher type and I don’t go around talking about dwarves, elves, dragons, magic, and such. I just don’t. The origins of this story really began because as a relatively younger father of two boys, I would come up with bedtime stories for them.

  After a while, the details of the story began getting jumbled in my head, so I began writing things down. And the stories grew in complexity. It became a saga to entertain what at the time were seven and eight-year-old boys. And when I was done, those stories remained in my desk drawer for a long time.

  But along the way, something had happened to me. I’d gotten the writing bug.

  I learned that I enjoyed the process of creating stories, and because I can’t leave well enough alone, I began thinking about maybe writing something for myself.

  Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy epic fantasy, and grew up on Tolkien, Eddings, and various other authors who set me on the path, but I equally enjoyed Crichton, Asimov, Grisham, and many others in genres that dealt more with action and adventure.

  I’d made friends with some rather well-known authors, and when I talked about maybe getting more serious about this writing thing, several of them gave me the same advice, “Write what you know.”

  Write what I know? I began to think about Michael Crichton. He was a non-practicing MD, and started off with a medical thriller. John Grisham was an attorney for a decade before writing a series of legal thrillers. Maybe there’s something to that advice.

  I began to ponder, “What do I know?” And then it hit me.

  I know science. It’s what I do for a living and what I enjoy reading nowadays. In fact, one of my hobbies is reading formal papers spanning many scientific disciplines. My interests range from particle physics, computers, the military sciences (you know, the science behind what makes stuff go boom), and medicine. I’m admittedly a bit of a nerd in that way. I’ve also traveled extensively during my life, and am an informal student of foreign languages and cultures.

  With the advice of some New York Times bestselling authors, I started my foray into writing novels.

  And then the unexpected happened.

  People began reading them!

  And then I hit a national bestseller list or two.

  This hobby had suddenly become something a bit more than I’d expected.

  And even though I’m not, strictly-speaking, a full-time author, by the end of this year, I should have over twenty books out in a relatively short period of time.

  Those bedtime stories had turned into something much more than I’d ever imagined.

  And then I opened that drawer where everything started.

  The musty and yellowed sheets of printed paper I’d set aside long ago, I began reading those stories and cringing.

  I am so much better than I was back then. Somehow or another, I’d picked up some skills and instincts that hadn’t been there a decade earlier.

  I thought to myself, “Maybe it’s time for me to see if I can make something of those old stories?”

 

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