Of Seekers and Shepherds: Children of the Younger God, Book One

by G. H. Duval

  But Spring knew better, she simply did not know how to admit it out loud. Her talent was such that she would soon outgrow those available to her in Hayden’s. Even her mother acknowledged this reluctantly. It was not hubris, it simply was. She suspected Jayden understood this, even with his limited knowledge of her world of affinities and Aspects. She would, per force, be independent from him in a way no other noble’s wife would, and still he pursued her anyway. She gnawed at her bottom lip, pinching it between her teeth, as if she could force a solution to present itself if she focused hard enough.

  “Spring!” a voice shouted from the doorway. She jumped, a scream escaping before she could catch herself and cut it short. It was Brandin, red faced and breathing hard. “It’s Mina,” he nearly barked at her. “It’s a bad one, Spring, and the syrup didn’t help at all! You have to come, now!”

  Two

  “Do not despair or falter, for with your faith in Me, great works will yet be yours!”

  –Helig Ra’d, Teachings of the Great Shepherd

  Siare au L’espri’s world came to an end on a crisp, perfect fall evening. As she turned her mount, taking the final bend toward the courtyard of their Declaration circle, she smiled to herself in appreciation of the lovely weather. For, telepath and oracle that she was, even she failed to see what lay ahead.

  As the other half of the First Stewards, she was the First Seer and the equivalent of a queen. But she was not bedecked in the usual display of wealth and power as her more traditional counterparts would be. That was not to say, however, that she went about as humbly as a strict reading of the Helig Ra’d might suggest. She was the woman at the helm of Coerdom, after all, and the final word on all matters.

  Her dress was made of silk and dyed a perfect, pure violet—the color reserved for au L’espris, and a tangible reminder to all of her Aspect calling. The gown was drawn in at her waist but bared her shoulders, full sleeves accentuating her arms with a flare of fabric hanging from each. Where the fabric spanned her collarbones, gold thread had been sewn in an intricate pattern that would catch every ounce of light throughout the evening’s ceremony, allowing her to quite literally sparkle. The gold stitching flowed from her bust and continued through the waist and down to the hem. She was not a tall woman, but the dress was purposefully long. It was draped across her horse’s back to ensure that all would see her in her shimmering beauty.

  Her husband, Shavare, rode at her side. As was traditional for his role as her protector, his robe replaced her violet with black and the detailing done in silver—the formal colors of The Firsts. The fabric stretched across his broad shoulders and muscular form as he rode, tall and effortlessly confident in his saddle. She never tired of watching him: her mate, her protector, her Formynder.

  As was his custom, her Formynder harnessed his affinities—all four natural elements as he alone could do—and sent the announcement of their arrival ahead of them. She heard the winds swirling through the courtyard and cast out her Spirit, looking through the eyes of one of her subjects to watch water droplets rising from the courtyard’s fountain into the air. As the water descended—sparkling in the sudden flare of torches spaced throughout—cries of anticipation rose from the awaiting crowd. She withdrew to the confines of her own mind, warmed by the enthusiastic response of her people.

  They entered the courtyard, and Siare indulged herself, absorbing the adulation of the throng as her husband sent the torches flaring once more with a channel of Fire and Air—ensuring that the pair glittered as they came to a stop before the Declaration circle itself. She opened herself to her Aspect again and felt her eyes tingle with the swirl of power she knew was now visible there, allowing the emotions of her flock to buffet her. Seeing herself through their eyes, she swelled. They still believed in her, thought her omnipotent. She willed herself to accept their judgment as truth. It was a reversal in their roles, for it should be she who judged and declared what was truth and what was not.

  Shavare swung from his saddle, but he did not rest on the ground. Rather, he floated to her and lifted her from her saddle. She settled onto the platform of Air he had called; hand in hand, they glided to their appointed place along the anointed patch of loam that was the Declaration circle. Shavare deposited them smoothly onto the two center stones within that loam, and she smoothed her dress before glancing across the circle at the Declarers’ stones.

  Upon those stones, children celebrating their 16th Naming Day this month would step forward and Declare themselves. If not called by Hirute, they would keep their family name and choose their selected path of service to their community. But if they were one of the special few called by Hirute to serve a natural Aspect, they would boldly submit themselves to Siare’s search—a telepathic assessment of their character—and, if found true, would accept the name of their respective affinities. From this day forward, her newly named Shepherds would forsake any ties—spiritual or legal—to their mortal family and would henceforth be known by their Aspect Name: au Ciele (Air), au Terre (Earth), au Feur (Fire), and au Leaux (Water).

  But the even rarer few called to Spirit would not—could not—wait to be so named at this monthly ritual. As…disruptive…as these au L’espri children could be, no time could be spared in bringing them into the fold once they were discovered. A middling talent for Air or Earth was one thing, Siare conceded, and even those with a strong natural gift could be easily diffused with a governing band until the right time came for them to Declare. She had lived far too long upon the face of Avelare, however, to think for a moment that her people—much less her barely cowed neighbors—could tolerate a budding Spirit Shepherd moving about in their midst, un-Declared and unharnessed, governing band or no. Even for Siare—their First Seer—the love of the masses was rooted in their belief, their faith, that her extraordinary abilities existed only to serve them. They believed she was kept in check by no less than the irrefutable will of their God.

  She frowned as she took in the four stones directly opposite, standing empty and accusing. A stab of alarm pierced her. As if she’d infected them with her own emotions, the cheers of her people faltered, giving way to muttering. Dark, ugly thoughts floated toward her.

  Where are the Declarers?

  She is false! None shall serve her!

  Who shall protect us?

  She must step down!

  She opened her mouth to speak, prepared to cast out her presence and bring the crowd to heel. She could explain, she thought, growing frantic. She would make them listen. She would make them understand. But before she could act, a Declarer came forward.

  She calmed with his arrival, though her unease persisted. It was unusual for Declarers to arrive after she and Shavare had taken up their positions. It was also odd that only one Declarer appeared before them…she could not recall when that had happened last, and she had a very good memory after all. Through their Spirit-bond, she touched Shavare, testing if he, too, felt discomfited by the strangeness of the evening. She found him at ease, eagerly awaiting that moment when the Declarer would begin the ritual and draw on their shared Aspect—another member of the flock welcomed into their dominion.

  The man seeking to Declare moved forward. As was custom, he wore the simple white Declaration robe, though he had embellished it by adding a vibrant green belt. Appropriately, he moved to stand on the stone beneath the green flag of the Earth Aspect. Like Shavare, he was tall. But where her husband was broad, the man was lean. Yet, when his grey eyes met Siare’s, confident and unflinching, she knew him to be Shavare’s equal in strength—of will if not of muscle.

  A breeze moved through the courtyard, stirring the banners of black and silver draped from second-story windows in honor of The Firsts. It was a natural breeze, not called by Shavare, and it gently brushed the man’s dark hair from his shoulders and set it swaying against his white Declaration robe.

  Siare frowned.

  His hair was long, longer than the style typically worn by men in Coer. It was a custom leftov
er from a decades-gone affectation; yet he looked familiar…she knew the eyes that regarded her, didn’t she, steadily and patiently waiting for her to begin the ritual? She knew every curve of the prominent, hawkish nose and the dominant, pointed chin.

  Verrider!

  How had she failed to recognize him, she wondered, baffled at yet another odd turn of events. What in All His Names was happening?

  She reached toward him, an arm outstretched in welcome, as he need not Declare or be searched. He was one of her most accomplished Shepherds, after all. Why was he here? What was he waiting for?

  “Why, that is simple, Siare.” Verrider said then, seeming to answer her unvoiced question. Her skin prickled, and her blood ran cold.

  His voice was melodic. And while he had not raised his voice, his words easily carried throughout the courtyard. She stared at him, confounded by his presence and his seemingly unjustified insolence.

  “You must step down, my First,” he continued, relentlessly calm. Without her leave, he stepped off of his stone to stand directly on the loam. He was barefoot, and his Aspect immediately responded to him. Vines burst from the loam and snaked along his body. Where the vines touched his robe, the robe turned green. In moments, he stood a few feet from her, clad entirely in green. Even his skin had absorbed the deep, pulsing hue. All that remained of the Verrider she knew were his piercing grey eyes.

  “You are a false Seer, Siare.” His voice held a note of sadness but was no less adamant for it. “Admit it,” he insisted. “And step down.” His voice became a growl—a command.

  Siare trembled. Since the day of her own Declaration—barely a woman at sixteen years of age—she had ceased to feel fear as others do. First as a Candidate, then later as the First Seer in Waiting, she had enjoyed the triple protection of the Headmistress, her Formynder, and the very power she held within her. But now, in this moment, the ability to fear returned to her, and it seemed it had not left her for all those years but instead had only gathered in force, awaiting this moment to resurface and break her will.

  She knew Verrider’s intent was to hurt her. She knew also she could not stop him.

  Shavare!

  Of course, her husband would protect her! How could she have forgotten such an essential truth? It was his very reason for existing, so decreed by their God. She turned to him, already grasping toward him, waiting for him to whisk her into his arms and carry her away.

  But when she turned, Shavare was gone. In his place—even wearing his robe—was a stranger…more than that, it was the presence of something unknown. The stranger had a mind that did not register against her senses, yet his emotions reached her. They were raw and malicious, timeless and implacable.

  Siare was not certain what this creature in Shavare’s clothing was, but she knew him to be her equal in power, not one she could dismiss or subdue as she could nearly everyone else she encountered. The creature was almost of a height with her husband, but his skin was of an impossible shade. To her stunned, disbelieving eyes, he appeared to be a dusky blue, his hair and eyes a translucent violet. Where his ears should have been, pointed, wing-shaped protrusions parted his hair.

  Elf, a part of her still-functioning mind supplied. Unlike so many of her generation, she knew that Elves did, in truth, exist. But they held to their own realm, far from humanity. They preferred it that way, she had been told, as they possessed a legendary apathy toward her kind.

  Before she could speak or move, before she could marshal her Aspect, he took hold of her. One long-fingered hand rested on each of her shoulders. He squeezed, holding her fast.

  She screamed.

  Great Shepherd above! It burns!

  She clawed at his hands, but it was as if she tore at rock. She sought her Aspect, but it was gone. She screamed again as his grasp on her tightened even more.

  “False,” he hissed. “You are False!”

  Siare felt her knees give way, and as she sagged, his nails dug into her shoulders. They tore through her dress and into her flesh. Her body, so old despite its outward appearance, was dying. And now she found her power stripped from her, her long-held fear come true.

  Pressure built in her breast—a scream like no other trying to break free—but no sound emerged. She tried to take a breath, but it, too, was strangled, buried in the scream she could not set free.

  She was rocked, side to side. Her head bobbed on her slack neck. Her vision blurred.

  “Siare!” she heard Shavare call. But Shavare is gone, she thought hazily. Had he not abandoned her?

  “Siare!” His voice came again, a bellowing force as he guided her into a sitting position, breaking her from her nightmare.

  She thrashed for a few moments more, feebly resisting Shavare’s gentle hands, unable to accept that she was suddenly free from the demon-like Elf.

  “See,” he breathed, insistent, recognizing that she was awake but not yet herself. His pet name for her brought her back. It was, admittedly, a horrible pun of a nickname, and he’d derived it as a nervous boy when they had first learned of each other, but it had always made them laugh. It was one of the few things that belonged to just the two of them, and she allowed herself to believe she was safe in their bed.

  Her legs were trapped in tangled sheets—even that marginal pressure against her skin threatening to snap her fragile wits—and she struggled to kick them from her legs. Shavare frowned, and with barely a glance, the sheets flew from the bed seemingly of their own volition.

  “Are you alright?” He took her face in both of his large, strong hands. She clung to his wrists, sobs wracking her. He pulled her onto his lap and held her tight.

  “Is it the foresight? Or a sending?” he whispered. “Shall I send for Wilha?”

  She shook her head, the barest of movements. She was weak—worse than weak, she knew. She was fallible. She could not let Mother—the Headmistress and her greatest remaining ally—see her this way.

  “No,” she croaked as the sobs finally began to subside. She took a deep, steadying breath, pulling strength and comfort from her husband. At her tug on his resources, he immediately relented, giving of himself through their Spirit bond. Always the devoted husband. For some reason, the thought made the sobs well in her again. But with Shavare lending her his strength, she stifled them.

  “I,” she began, then realized she had no way to explain what she had seen. Though she may be in the sunset of her reign as First Seer, she had enough of the gift yet at her disposal to know she had dreamed no simple nightmare. It had been no proper sending of Hirute’s either. She knew too well the touch of Hirute, and that had certainly not been of Him.

  “I’m not sure what I dreamed. It was…horrible.” She twisted in his lap, just enough to look into his eyes. She held a hand to one of his cheeks, assuring herself that he was real—that she, and this, was real. “It was not a sending from our Lord. But it was important. I must parse it…”

  Rather than answer, he placed her hand in his—kissed it then squeezed, willing her back to the powerful Seer she had once been.

  “Shavare,” she said into the quiet, no strength left for dissembling. “Something is terribly, terribly wrong. Worse than even I had guessed. We can no longer wait and hope for Hirute’s guidance. We must find Verrider. Now.”

  Three

  “The Brave Shepherd watches his flock alone. The Wise Shepherd chooses not to.”

  –Helig Ra’d, Teachings of the Great Shepherd

  “You have to come, now!”

  Spring froze, her mind blanked with panic for a moment before her training took over. “Tahnia isn’t here,” she told Brandin, voice brisk, as she hurried to her cloak and grabbed the key to the shop. As gently as she could, she pushed Brandin from the doorway to pull the door shut. Before she could latch the door, Tahnia rounded the corner. In a glance, she took in the scene, her stoic healer persona sliding into place.

  “Where am I needed?” she asked, closing the distance and placing a steadying hand on Brandin’s tremb
ling shoulder—whether it shook from exertion or from fear, Spring could not say.

  “You are needed right here, Master,” Spring replied, surprising herself with the calm she exuded. “It’s Mina. I need to return home, but you should stay. Others will be here in moments, and they need you more than they need me.”

  “Are you certain?” Tahnia looked Spring directly in the eyes, assessing her for her readiness to perform. Spring returned the gaze levelly, not fully understanding where her confidence was coming from, but she trusted it, nonetheless. “I’ll send for you if it is more than I can handle.”

  “Very well.” Tahnia entered the shop as Spring and Brandin sprinted home.

  They sped through the jewelry shop, passed through their shared living space, and made it up the stairs in a blur Spring barely perceived. She found herself in her bedroom staring at her sister, who was suffering the worst seizure Spring had ever seen.

  Mina was still in bed, but all semblance of the peace Spring had witnessed earlier was gone. Her sister thrashed like an enraged, wild animal. Their mother was stretched across Mina’s body, trying desperately to pin her down, and absorbing blow after blow from Mina’s flailing arms and legs. As Spring rushed to the opposite side of the bed, Brandin moved to Mina’s legs and used his strength to hold them down. Her mother pulled herself up and focused on holding down Mina’s right arm, while Spring took the left.

  Though she was pinned, and therefore more manageable, Mina was not any calmer. She groaned and screamed, straining against them. Her eyes rolled in their sockets, the way of horses when they sense a threat and are on the brink of panic. Spittle, beginning to foam, shot from her lips as she bellowed at them.