The wind had changed. No longer the familiar warm breath of the valley, it was a gale, a screaming thing tearing at Samantha's cloak. High on the ridge above Olwar, the fabric whipped and strained like a tattered sail, battling an unseen current of time itself. Below her, the eucalyptus copse clung to a riverbend, and beyond that, the shadowed expanse of South West province stretched into an uncertain future.
She had known it would come to this.
With a practiced hand, Samantha pulled her hood back, freeing her short, dark hair to the wind's assault. She knelt, her palm flat against the dry earth. Weeks without rain, yet the roots beneath her fingers whispered warnings – brittle, ancient prophecies woven into the very soil.
"He has welcomed him," she murmured, the words almost lost in the wind's roar. A deeper tremor shook her, one that had nothing to do with the chill. "Sister, when did you become this foolish?"
Her fingers trembled, not with age – Samantha was not yet forty – but with the ghost of a memory. The last time she'd stood here, Whimper, her beloved sister, had been beside her. Samantha had carried news, a secret too precious to keep, a prophecy blossoming with hope. It had been their final conversation.
"Sister, the prophecy I told you about is almost upon us," she'd said then, her eyes bright with a joy soon to be shattered.
"That a brush will marry the stick?" Whimper's voice, even then, was sharp with a familiar contempt.
"The brush will fall upon us in a year's time. One of our own will be the stick. Did you tell Kent?" Samantha had almost vibrated with excitement.
"Then I must prepare Canya. She will need to be ready by then." Whimper's dismissal had cut deep even then.
"Your child is meant for greatness, dear sister, but she is not the bearer of the stick."
"Samantha, please." Whimper had lifted a hand, a gesture of pure disdain. "You know the gift has always flown through legitimate first-born daughters. You are my only sister, you can't be thinking the bearer will come from you. Your daughter, Kellen, is a product of momentary pleasure with that traveler and nothing more. I will prepare Canya."
"I tell you this because you are my only sister and one that I love. Please, talking to me like that breaks my heart." Samantha's tears had been real.
"I am only speaking the truth, sister. Kellen doesn't have what it takes."
"Tell another soul of this, you mess with things you have little understanding of. Canya is powerful, but she cannot be this. I am not saying Kellen is the one, she may be, but as far as I know, Canya isn't the one."
"Then it must be Julia, my younger daughter. I am the one with the gift."
"You are talking out of selfishness, Whimper." Samantha's look had turned pitiful. "The Whimper I know has been lost to his charm..."
"Keep Kent out of this, Samantha...you know what, our parents were right all along. Nothing good would come of me escaping with you. Thanks for telling me, I will prepare Canya, alongside my beloved husband."
"You will only die, my sister. His magic has tainted your kind. Canya may have the gift, but his blood flows through her veins. Heed my words."
Canya's mother had smiled then, that quiet, knowing way. "You are wrong, sister, my daughter is the one. You will see."
Now Whimper was gone, and Samantha still held the truth, untouched, heavy in her soul.
٭٭٭
Samantha turned, her gaze drawn to the ancient fig tree near the ridge's edge. Nestled in its gnarled roots was the small clay marker she had placed after the funeral – no name, just the swirling signet of the bloodline they had both carried. She had thought Whimper had truly transformed, had learned to love her as a sister again. Instead, time with Thomas had only deepened Whimper's ingrained sense of Samantha's inferiority, making her conceited.
Samantha had never liked Kent, for many reasons. Yet, she'd believed his influence wasn't powerful enough to truly pull her sister away. After they had left home, Whimper had begun to understand the true powers her birth had given her. With Samantha around, she also knew how inferior they were. Then, a dormant hatred for Samantha had awakened within her, though it remained hidden. When Whimper fell in love with Kent, and Samantha glimpsed the darkness in him, she had decided to warn her sister. That had been the worst mistake she had ever made.
She had become an enemy to her sister, and to her sister's husband. Kent had even tried to kill her. She'd had no choice but to let her sister walk her own path. While they were still friends, she had spoken of a prophecy she'd been given by a falcon friend in Truetown. She had shared it with Whimper, without giving details, for she herself knew little of the prophecy beyond its core.
Kneeling by the marker, Samantha whispered softly, "You told him. He misled you. You interpreted the prophecy wrongly, and you paid the price. You can still right things, though. I can help, but you will have to help me, if you want to save Canya."
Her eyes closed. A moment passed. Then she felt it – a flicker in the air, a gentle push against her spirit.
A presence.
٭٭٭
Inside her secluded cottage, Samantha stirred the embers of her hearth. She lived deep in the woods of Olwar, far from the bustling world. Few dared to visit, and she preferred it that way, not out of pride, but fear – fear that her art might scare people to death. Ongo, a frequent and welcome visitor, was an exception, but still, she cherished her privacy.
As the flames caught, a line of smoke curled upward, taking on a shape, then two forms. A man and a woman. Not holding hands, but circling one another warily.
Allan. Canya.
Samantha's frown deepened. "Fool. Kent, you have ruined my sister."
The smoke shifted again, forming a third figure, hovering just beyond them. Neither Allan nor Canya saw it. But its hands were stretched towards both of them.
Samantha stood abruptly. "You saw it, sister, you saw it. Now let me help you." She waved her hand, and the smoky tableau broke apart.
٭٭٭
Later that night, she sat at her writing desk, illuminated only by the soft glow of a single candle. She dipped her quill into black ink and began to write, the scratching sound the only disturbance in the quiet.
When she was finished, she sealed the letter, stamped it with the symbol of their maternal line, and placed it on her windowsill. The wind, her ancient messenger, would carry it where it needed to go.
In the profound silence that followed, Samantha poured a drink and returned to the warmth of the fire.
"Poor Thomas," she whispered, her voice laced with weary pity. "You are wallowing in the lie you had given my sister. In the end, you are continuing her mistake."
She took a long sip, the liquid burning a path down her throat.
"And poor girl. I hope you listen to me, otherwise, you die like your mother."