by G. H. Duval
Spring trembled with relief even while nausea flared at his mention of arrest.
“But we must take them to Coer. Only the First Seer, herself, can dispense judgment in a manner such as this. However,” he added quickly, cutting off anything Spring might have added. “I give you my word that we will treat your parents with respect and fairness. If they are innocent, the First will know.”
“We have to get the girl, Jeyson,” Preon said soberly. “Now.”
Jeyson looked only at Spring. “Are you ready to return home?”
Spring squared her shoulders. While a part of her was terrified at her mother’s reaction, intellectually, she knew she had done the right thing. Mina was in very real danger as a Seer who’d been kept from the Headmistress. Even Spring’s Aspect could be dangerous if expressed without someone to guide both Aspect and human as they learned to coexist. She need not imagine what would happen to a budding Spirit Shepherd who had no idea what was happening to her. She need not imagine because she had seen, far too often, precisely what had happened to her sister. Again, the anger toward her mother returned. How could she, Spring wondered, desolate. How could she do that to Mina?
“Yes, Brother,” Spring answered, her voice empty. “I am ready.”
Eight
“There is no wound so great as the absence of love; no salve so powerful as its return.”
–Helig Ra’d, Teachings of the Great Shepherd
Wilha woke suddenly, unsure of what had roused her, and was just as surprised to find that she had fallen asleep while sitting by the fire in her study. The hour had grown later than she realized as she had been engaged in her latest research project. The volume she’d been reading on one of their neighbors—the nation of Kirin—lay askew in her lap. While Kirin boasted an interesting people, with intricate customs and a long, troubled history, her value as Headmistress did not rest in her thirst for culture. Kirin had dispatched a new ambassador to court—the last one having been summoned back after several colorful indiscretions were discovered. Wilha was determined to be better prepared for his arrival than she’d been for his predecessor’s.
As far as she and her fellow Coerdans were concerned, the Kirin were a downright peculiar people, from their social orders to their religious ones. Not only did they reject the Hirute of Coerdom but also the concept of any divinity save for their Emperor—a being they believed to be both mortal and divine. Their unique secularism led to a refusal of the very notion that their people could be born with the gift of an innate connection with the natural world, as were the Shepherds of Coerdom. Instead, the Kirin encouraged mage-craft, binding the elements to their will through a practice termed “science”. It was a practice wholly unnatural to the Coerdans, even considered evil by some, but Wilha’s experience had taught her to mistrust generalities. She knew better than to believe that the excesses perpetrated by the few defined the many. And one had to co-exist peacefully with one’s neighbor, after all, no matter how uncomfortable that existence proved to be. The alternative—to return to the constant warfare of their long-ago past—was even more unacceptable to the Coerdans than the customs they were forced to endure in the name of diplomacy.
Rather than brood over that which she couldn’t change, she focused instead on gaining as much knowledge about the Kirin as possible. The last ambassador had somehow shielded his thoughts from her for quite some time, and it had allowed him to satisfy his unwholesome tastes for the youngest of his attendants without detection for far too long. It had been decades since she’d been surprised in such a way, and it rattled her. She had to assume his replacement would have similar mental guards in place. So, for the past several weeks, she’d combed through any and all material on Kirin mage-craft available to her. Unfortunately, it wasn’t much, and she scarcely felt as armed as she’d hoped.
She sat straighter in her seat, closing the book and placing it on the corner of the hearth while she stretched, yawning. Glancing at the lone, darkened window, she wondered how long she’d slept. Fully waking now, she glanced around the study, looking for what had startled her from that sleep. As if on cue, a log split beside her, a whispered puff of ashes rising into the quiet of her study. Wilha frowned, watching the flames and felt a tug at her memory.
I was dreaming…something about Preon?
Recalling dreams was a skill taught to even the youngest, most slightly gifted of the au L’espri, so she settled back into her chair, closed her eyes, and slowed her breathing. Within moments she had the dream before her. Even in the midst of her meditation, Wilha’s mouth spread into a wide, pleased smile. She never thought the face of Lord Preon could please her so. She was doubly grateful to her loyal servant, Jeyson, who had sent the dream of such grand news to her. She allowed the sending to finish but remained seated with eyes closed for a few minutes more—these last she devoted to prayer, a thanksgiving to Hirute, for it seemed His favor was hers once more.
She left her quarters and headed for the apartments of the Firsts. She descended three flights to the first floor, crossed the main entrance, and went back up the stairs directly opposite. The closest set of stairs were usually reserved for use by the castle’s servants and keepers, but she was not remotely concerned with appearances now. She held her robes away from her feet and hurried along, her sure movements at odds with her advanced age.
Though the Steading had a provincial name, the structure had little resemblance to what its name implied. After well over a century of war, and thankfully more than thrice that long since of peace, the Steading existed now as a proper castle. It boasted four main wings at its southern base, a block-shaped stables to the north, and two long rectangular buildings to the east and west, which housed the dormitories and niche clusters of the students. A courtyard stretched between the niche buildings containing the castle’s gardens—a large enough space that it was often used for training maneuvers for budding Shepherds.
With whitewashed walls topped by striking blue slate, the Steading towered over the city of Coer—a structure of form and function, beauty and strength. To Wilha’s mind, it reflected the very nature of the First Stewards within.
She reached the main entryway, which was a broad expanse of marble floors, carved columns, and intricate moldings depicting each of the five Aspects. Paintings, sculptures, tapestries, even flowers from every corner of Coerdom filled the large space, paying homage to the Aspects and to The Great Shepherd, Hirute, Himself. As she rarely ventured through this hall in her duties, often keeping to her private rooms and the au L’espri niche, she spared a moment to appreciate the artwork as she sped toward the far wing opposite.
The North wing was reserved in its entirety for the purposes of the First Stewards. The first two floors were devoted to the business of government, while the top two floors were comprised of the Firsts’ main living quarters and their private sleeping chambers, which was Wilha’s ultimate destination. She turned to continue up the steps when she caught movement and watched the familiar shape of Culari descend the steps to join her.
Culari was not particularly tall—no more than a head taller than she was, herself. But his lean build and aristocratic carriage gave him the appearance of much greater height. He wore the livery of the Firsts—a black tunic trimmed with silver stitching and bearing the symbol of interlocking rings on his right breast, with matching black leggings and boots.
The fact that he was a servant in no way diminished him, and his presence at the First Seer’s shoulder had always given Wilha great comfort. He was the personal aide to the First Seer, serving only her—not the Formynder, nor the nation at large. His service was a personal devotion to Siare’s person and her office, and he’d been in service since the previous First Seer ruled, when Wilha had not yet transitioned fully from youth to woman.
When she’d first taken on the mantle of Headmistress, she marshaled the courage to ask Culari how long he’d served in his rare capacity and if he’d continue to do so when the Seer she would groom came to power. Hi
s answer proved evasive, claiming he could not remember when his service had started and promising to serve only so long as he was called. As his mind was also curiously closed to her, Wilha had taken him at his word and assumed he was just another part of Hirute’s intricate plan.
Culari regarded her now with a small smile barely held in check, as if they shared some long private secret, which Wilha conceded was perhaps not so far from the truth. His warm brown eyes sparkled with intelligence, and he bowed artfully, as only those born and raised at court could. “Headmistress,” he said softly into the hush of the sleeping castle around them.
“Culari,” she responded, acknowledging him with a polite nod and a smile of her own. “She is ready for me, then?” When he simply nodded, she motioned toward the stairs and fell in beside him as they continued on. “I had hoped she would not be seeking at this hour, but she must sense the news I bring. I am sorry it disturbs her rest.”
Culari’s voice was amused as he answered. “Indeed, Headmistress. Perhaps she was taught too well?” He glanced at her and seemed pleased when she smiled back.
“Flatterer.”
He spread his hands, affecting an innocent expression, and Wilha laughed outright. He was the rare person who exhibited no trace of anxiety when in the presence of a Spirit Shepherd, and his easygoing nature always put her at ease—a gift he employed daily in keeping the First Seer calm in the midst of her duties. “And the Formynder?”
“He has not been roused,” Culari said simply, and Wilha decided not to press the issue. The First Seer must have her reasons for not waking her husband and guardian, and it was not Wilha’s place to question that decision.
“You seem in better spirits than we’ve seen for some time, if you don’t mind my saying, Headmistress,” Culari continued, watching Wilha carefully. When she waved away the concern, he pressed on. “You’ve both borne such a burden these last years, but you’ve been particularly strained in the last few months. You seem lighter tonight, and so does she. Good news has come?”
“Better than that,” she assured him warmly.
They ascended the final flight and arrived at the double doors to the First Stewards’ sleeping chambers. An armed guard stood to either side wearing silver-plated armor with tabards and cloaks sporting the same colors and insignias as Culari’s uniform. The doors were likewise carved with the official emblem of interlocking rings, but in addition, they bore the stylized rod and staff of the Great Shepherd. As she and Culari approached, the guards saluted and admitted Wilha and Culari, immediately securing the doors behind them.
The sitting room was large but made cozy by several rugs and tapestries. A fireplace stood directly opposite the double doors—huge compared to what Wilha had in any of her rooms—and the fire glowing inside lent its warmth to the room, reinforcing the informal feel. There were several groupings of chairs and small tables around the room, but only two sat nearest the hearth. They were larger than the others, oversized, overstuffed, and carved with symbols for each of the five affinities. Wilha’s eyes went immediately to the woman sitting in one of them.
The First Seer sat with eyes closed, as if dozing. A heavy mane of straight, nearly black hair contrasted against her exceedingly fair skin. She had well-defined cheekbones, a full mouth, and a slightly pointed chin. She was a slight woman, as was common with those of Spirit, and at a full head shorter than Wilha, was delicate of build and achingly beautiful. She opened brilliant green eyes and turned them on Wilha, rising in a fluid, effortless motion as she did so.
Wilha could still see the wisps of the girl the First had been all those years ago. As Wilha looked at the woman she had become, she smiled with the pride she always felt at the sight of Siare. My Siare.
Theirs was a connection few could know—mind to mind, will to will. Because of that connection, First Seer or no, Wilha knew all was not well with Siare. It was more than knowing that Siare had been pushed to the limits of her gift—her reign extended beyond any reasonable expectation. It was more than the aggrieved lines of age at her eyes and mouth—fainter than they should be for Siare’s actual age, at least one small sign of Hirute’s continued blessing. What nagged at Wilha was the sign of a new strain being borne by this woman whom she served—one that Siare had not, and, apparently, would not share with Wilha.
Accepting that even Siare needed her secrets—was entitled to them—Wilha went to her at once. “Siare.”
“Mother,” Siare said, using the honorific those of Spirit used for their Headmistress. “She has been found.” It was not a question, and the smile on Siare’s face showed the same fierce joy and desire Wilha had felt when she’d recovered her dream.
“Will you join me?” Siare indicated the open chair next to her own. Culari moved to his customary place behind Siare’s chair, folding his arms behind him. His eyes grew distant as he gave the two women their privacy. Wilha knew what would happen next from sheer habit. When they were alone, the two women scarcely spoke aloud.
“May I?” Siare asked, as was her custom, out of courtesy.
“Of course.”
Siare entered Wilha’s mind. Her presence was remarkable—strong, warm, deft. Siare easily avoided those recesses that were Wilha’s private, vulnerable thoughts and moved directly for the dream Jeyson had sent. And then she did that which Wilha could not, for it was the gift of the First Seer’s alone. She catalogued each person present in the dream and followed their scents back to their very minds. She did not invade them; she learned them, marked them for later through their Aspect nodes. She could find them from this moment on, and if needed, speak directly to them through this link no matter where they were located throughout the realm. And through that process of marking, Wilha received her first glimpse of the precious Mina.
As she had suspected, the child’s mind was a complete mess of emotions, visions, and thoughts. Each mind in Mina’s household assaulted her, most forcefully when she slept, though they did so unknowingly, and the poor child could not prevent it. It was beyond rare that a child of any affinity would express as early as Mina had, and even more so for Spirit. Most confounding was the way in which this child innately pulled the thoughts of others into herself, for reaching was a path not common even among the au L’espri. To reach was solely the domain of Seers—an active, conscious talent that had to be taught. Wilha had never, in all her years, encountered a child with such ability.
A child like this should have appeared as a blazing bonfire in Wilha’s mind, and it should not have been possible to keep her from Wilha’s attention. But that is precisely what had been accomplished, and there was nothing in all of Avelare that would convince Wilha that the child’s mother had accomplished this on her own. She had to accept that their God had not revealed Mina until now—when she’d suffered at the hands of her mother’s ignorance. His most blessed and precious of servants had been left to fend for herself, and Wilha had no acceptable explanation for it. She fought the urge to squirm as the thought emerged, choosing faith over doubt.
Returning her attention to Siare’s work, she gleaned how Mina had incorporated the barrage from those around her, absorbing their dreams, their hopes, and their fears into her own. Often, the attempt failed, and she would wake screaming. Once awake, she showed the full strength of her innate abilities by pushing against the constant assault, collapsing the noise to an unintelligible buzz that, while tiring, did not hurt nearly so much as the force of the actual thoughts.
Siare moved through the child’s short life, tasting memories—so few sweet, too many bitter—and sought that which belonged to Mina alone: her fears, her hopes, her dreams. Siare savored them, learning to know Mina as no one else ever had or could, until she arrived at the present. Mina’s mind existed in dozens of compartments, and some did not connect to others at all, while yet others clung desperately to her conscious mind. There was so much damage, Wilha felt a new urgency to reach the child and begin her instruction. Siare’s hands squeezed more tightly, and Wilha realized that
her First was sharing in Mina’s pain.
Carefully, Wilha slid along her shared consciousness with Siare and found a point of entry where she could observe without pulling her support from her First or causing any disruption to the artful work underway. In near awe, she watched as Siare pulled a thread from Mina—a thought that pulsed and rippled a sallow yellow. This thread was causing Mina deep pain, even buried as it was. As Wilha viewed the memory herself, she recoiled. The image Mina had tried so hard to hide was one in which she was dead, her mother—grey and empty—lying prone across Mina’s grave. Even more sad and shocking than the image itself was its source, which was Mina’s mother. Quickly, Wilha withdrew, and she redoubled her sending of strength and sustenance to Siare, feeding Siare’s Aspect node from her own.
As quickly as Siare had already been working, she moved still faster, and Wilha caught her breath in admiration. Siare tugged at Wilha’s reserves again, and Wilha granted all that she could to her First. With renewed force, Siare gathered the remaining images, emotions, and memories yet to be resolved. She sorted them and locked them away. When she was done, only Mina existed and what there was of her was dismally small—the child worn down, year after painful year, to this small sliver of a persona that she could maintain. But there was much more locked away with what had invaded her. To restore her would take a great deal more work, careful and slow. Finally satisfied that all which could be done had been done, Siare left Mina to get, perhaps, the first real night of sleep the child had enjoyed in years.
Siare released Wilha’s hands, clasping her own as she settled deeper into her chair, clearly exhausted. “I wish I could do more,” she murmured. Wilha assured her that she’d done the absolute most possible. The lines on Siare’s face had deepened and her color had gone from pale to grey. Even with pulling at Wilha’s own resources, and most likely Culari’s, the work had nearly proved too much for her.