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[Alisiea]

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Alisiea half-knelt, half-sat at the low hand crafted wooden table in the private dinning area of the Okiya. Her hair, having returned to its natural color, was a splash of bloodwood red in an otherwise earth toned room. Her hair, having grown out, now hung to just below her waist. She kept it out of her eyes by holding it back with her left hand as she leaned her elbow on the table. Her right hand clutched a quill in her fingers that most people would consider a bit too tight to be effective on the paper. Her focus was intense as she attempted to write the letters in her best hand possible. As she scratched each letter on the paper, she sounded it aloud.

“Aaaaeee… Eeeeee… Iiiiiii… Ohhhhh… Uuuuu.”

Celestia kicked.

“Ow. Stop that! Mommy is trying to write.”

Celestia kicked again.

“Not yet child. Soon.” She paused in her exercise to admire the neatly scratched vowels. A drop of ink hung precariously on the tip of the quill as she held it over the page. Celestia kicked again and the drop plummeted to the otherwise pristine parchment. Alisiea gasped and glanced towards the stairs leading to the upper rooms. If Mariko, or even Umeko for that matter, saw what had just happened, they would stare at her as if she had two heads. Perfection was a curse in this house and Alisiea was beginning to think of it as more a prison than a safe-haven. Setting the quill down she folded the parchment in half and, using the hem of her kimono to protect her hand, she opened the small curved door of the iron heater and placed the parchment onto the glowing coals where it instantly burst into flame. Her imperfection vanished in a puff of smoke.

“Now I will have to start again.” She sighed.

A few more weeks the healer said. Six? Maybe eight? They had taught Ali how to count. She could now count to fifty and even knew the names of the months. She knew there were four weeks to each month and that there were seven days to each week. Mid-March, or thereabouts, a child would be born. A child that some had wanted dead even before she had been conceived. A child some said would, one day, save the world. A prophecy? A curse? Thus far only death and destruction had followed Ali since she had conceived. Paine was dead. Murdered by the foul mage Renthar. Then the joy of bearing his child was marred by the rise of Daemons whose endless pursuit of the child and its mother pushed Ali to the brink of madness. For it was madness to think that such a child could hold the key to everything. The breaking of the Shards. The rise of Mondain and the death of Heroes. The return of the Daemon Lord and the destruction of all that was pure and good in this world.

Ali held her head in her hands as she tried to recall Paines face or the sound of his voice, but all she could conjure was Her voice. That strange echoing hiss that had left her knees weak and her willpower faint. Ali forced the vision from her mind and struggled to replace it with the sight of her mother dancing before the Gypsy fires. The quite voice of Jolicia that night after the Tavern Gathering when they talked of love and passion. How long ago that seemed. She was what? Sixteen at the time? No, seventeen. Was it truly only a year ago that Ali had danced with abandon to the sound of the mandolin and the crisp clash of the tambourine?

Only a year? And how long had she been here? Two, three months? Three months. Twelve weeks. How many days? More than fifty surely. Never had she stayed in one place for so long. Not even with Paine. Or Gaius. Or Nythrax. Instinct had always told her when it was time to move on. She wanted Paine back. She had been desperate for him. Then Gaius offered to wed her.

“So the child will have a father and mother and not carry the label “bastard” all her life.” He had said in his thick Minoc accent.

But Celestia has parents! She has a mother and a father. She is not a “bastard.” Then Nythrax wanted the child so he could raise her in his image. Even Judas, when he was a woman said they should kill Ali. Was it the woman Judas speaking out of jealousy or the real Judas speaking? Then they wanted to take the child and give her to strangers to raise. Give her to the Pooka. Give her to the Elves. Everyone wanted the child. No one wanted Ali.

Struggling to her feet, she began pacing the small room. How long? How long would she have to stay here? Surely until Celestia was born. But what about after? Mariko had mentioned that the Empress had asked about Ali and her child. The Empress? Why would the Empress of this odd country be interested in a penniless Gypsy girl and her child? Ali paused. Her hands fell to caress her belly protectively. The Empress? A shot of panic raced up her spine. Mariko had forbidden her to leave the grounds of the Okiya or even open the gates. Was she a prisoner? But she had opened the gates. Only yesterday, to admit her new teacher; Mr. Darkheart. Ali frowned. She was certain she knew that name, but he had introduced himself as if they had never met. Where had she heard that name before? Dante … The Empress … everyone wanted the child; everyone!

Once again, every instinct screamed at her that it was time to move on. But she could not. Not yet. Not until the child was born. Then she would leave, immediately. But where would she go? Where?

Her dreams of late had been a shattered mix of vague images. Fragments of a puzzle that made no sense. Images of great battles or beautiful and peaceful places not seen in this place or time.

**********

Fifty thousand horse and a hundred thousand foot standing in orderly ranks before the gates of a great mountain hall. Massive pillars carved in the image of Kings stood staring out over a vast, barren plain. A great Hero in brilliant armor standing in the vanguard.

The song of ancient, beautiful Elves gathered under Oak and Ash. Under trees that stood as high as mountains. Their gold and silver leaves whispering in a gentle breeze.

Great ships of sail plowing the vast oceans. Guns ablaze. Pirates swooping down to plunder ship and town alike then race back to their own protective havens.

All the races that populated the world, chained together, marching in endless lines over roads paved with the crushed bones of the dead. Winged Daemons bearing whips of flame snapped them over the heads of the chained as they wailed in a single mournful voice. The world about them turned to fire.

**********

Ali paced, gently tapping the side of her head with her knuckles. “Where to go. Where to go.”

Flags bearing the image of a coiled serpent waving over the tall battlements of a sea-side town formed in her mind.

“No Celestia. We cannot go there.”

A town surrounded by wooden palisades. A single house burned to the ground.

A woman speaking. “We are not your parents.”

“Celestia, please stop. I must think.”

Surely there was somewhere. Somewhere far from the beaten track. Somewhere no one would want to go. There were islands where few people ever ventured. There were lands filled with such danger some feared to even speak their names. But where? Ali stopped her pacing. There was a place. Judas had gone there to hide once. But what was it called? Felucca. A ship. Aye, a ship. An island far from the trade routes. A place where the people who lived there hated visitors. But there had been a murder there. Ali frowned. She could not remember who it was that had been murdered, or why. What was it called?

Celestia kicked, hard. Wait! Judas had buried a treasure there. She frowned trying to remember. He took it … no … he only took some of it. She could find it again. She was certain of it. She could dig up the chest and use the money to buy her safety. That way she would not be a visitor, so the townspeople would keep her safe. Gold could buy safety and secrets. But what was it called?

Ali paced the length of the room, turned and started back the other direction. Passing the table she paused and glanced at her letter books, her practice journal and the fresh sheet of parchment she had taken out so she could start her exercise again. As her eyes passed over each item she gasped and clapped her hand to her mouth. There on the fresh white parchment, in a hand too neat and to practiced to be her own, was the letter “O”, a vowel and next to it a word, written in a hand not hers, written in letters so concise as to leave no doubt:

Ocllo.