by Angus Wells
“You seek to know your future?”
The voice was louder without the intervention of the door and he moved toward it through the darkness, cautiously, hand still brushing the wall.
“I do,” he said in answer.
“Then come here.”
The house was deeper than he had thought, standing outside; there were interior rooms, passages, that distorted her voice; he asked, “Where is here? I cannot see you.”
A laugh answered him and she said, “I am sorry—I forget.”
He frowned, hearing the scrape of flint on metal, seeing a tiny spark of light glitter ahead. Then a glow as a lamp of scented oil was lit, revealing a curve in the passage, dark rooms to his right.
“I am here. Can you see now?”
“Yes.” He moved toward the light, ducking beneath an arched doorway, entering a small room filled with shadows, the single lamp illuminating only the center, the low table on which it stood, and the face of the woman beyond it.
“Is that sufficient? Would you prefer more light?”
He nodded, and when she offered no response said, “I would. Unless your art requires darkness.”
“Light or dark, it matters not.”
She rose, lifting the lamp, and he saw that she was not the crone he had anticipated but a woman barely in her middle years, who might have been beautiful were her face not marked by plague scars. Hence the gloom, he thought, spaewives are as prone to vanity as any woman. Then bit off the thought as he watched her move to the wall, one hand touching the lamp set there in a gentle caress as she ignited the wick. She moved on, slowly, her free hand trailing along the wall just as he had sought that reassurance in the darkness, lighting sufficient lamps the room grew bright and he could see the blankness of her eyes and knew that she was blind. The servants had not mentioned that and he felt his cheeks flush, embarrassed.
He smiled apologetically and said, “Forgive me, I did not know.”
“You are courteous, but why should you? I see in other ways.”
She returned to the table and set the lamp aside, dropping smoothly to the cushions piled there. A motion seated Calandryll opposite her. He found the blind gaze of her eyes disconcerting, more so than the ugly pitting of her skin—plague was not unknown in a city occasionally subjected to siege—and sought to regain his composure by studying the room, her dress. Reba remained silent, as though accustomed to such pauses, and he saw that her hair was long and red, glossy as burnished copper, her gown green, fastened at throat and waist with vermilion cords. The room was empty of those artifacts he associated with divination. There was no crystal ball, nor caged bird or cabalistic charts, no cards spread before her, no polished skulls. Rather, it was a simple, underrated chamber, the walls white, the floor plain wood, a reddish hue not unlike her hair, the only furniture the table and the piled cushions, those simple, their colors primary.
“Are you disappointed?” Her tone hinted amusement. “Am I not grand enough for the son of the Domm?”
“I … No.” He shook his head, then gasped: “How did you know that?”
She laughed aloud and the sound hid her disfigurement.
“I am a spaewife, Calandryll. I saw your coming yesterday.”
“I was not sure yesterday,” he said, slowly.
“But still I saw it. I should be a poor seeress did I not. Would you not agree?”
He nodded and chuckled, her calm and her amusement reassuring. “I would,” he said. “Do others know?”
Reba shrugged. “That I cannot tell, though I would doubt it. A seer can usually forecast only specific events—those things of direct import, or those for which prediction is requested. Does it worry you?”
Now he shrugged.
“I should prefer my father did not know.”
“Presumably the reason you come to me, not the palace soothsayers.”
“They would inform my father. And I doubt their predictions.” He paused, not sure what etiquettes applied, wondering if she would assume his doubts encompassed her own abilities. “I mean, they seek to please the Domm and so adjust their divinations. At least, I think so.”
He sounded confused to his own ears, but Reba nodded as though she understood, accepted. She said mildly, “The Domm is a harsh master, or so I hear—you should not blame them.”
Calandryll nodded his agreement: those who failed to please the Domm found their employment rapidly terminated.
“You will say nothing?” he asked.
Reba shook her head, no longer laughing, solemn now. “What passes here is no one’s business save mine and my client’s.”
“Good,” he murmured. “I would have no word of this go back to the palace.”
“None shall,” she promised, “not from my lips.”
He realized, not without a shock of surprise, that he trusted her. Exactly why he could not say, but something in her even tone, the calm set of her scarred features, reassured him. He smiled afresh and tapped the purse at his side. He did not know what she charged for her services, nor how he should broach the subject of payment: he was the son of the Domm and had few dealings with such mundane matters.
“The cost is one gold var. Three should the augury prove difficult.”
He stared at her, again surprised, wondering if this was an aspect of her second sight. She laughed as though she saw his expression and said, “I heard the sound of coins. And it is usually the first question.”
Fresh doubts assailed him, the explanation so simple it prompted him to wonder if his burgeoning; confidence in her was misplaced. The servants he had questioned might well have warned her of his interest; and some watcher in the street might have recognized him, brought her swift word of his approach. Nonetheless he drew a var from his purse and placed it on her outstretched palm.
She closed her fist on the coin, holding it a moment before dropping it carelessly on the table. “Give me your hands.” she said.
He reached out and she took his hands, folding them between her own. Her skin was soft and warm, the touch oddly comforting. He saw her smile again and once more felt embarrassment rise as she said, “No one told me of your arrival, Calandryll. There is no watcher on the roof, nor in the street; nor did the servants inform me. Listen: I am a spaewife through accident, not choice. My talent was given me, not sought. Perhaps it was in compensation for the loss of my sight, I do not know; but it is a true talent.
“I was wife to Drum, a tavern keeper, until the plague took him. The same plague marked me and took my sight. Keeping a tavern when you cannot see is difficult, and there are few who welcome a woman scarred as I am serving their ale. I sold the tavern, which kept me for a while, then my talent became apparent and I came here. Now I am a spaewife and I can foresee your future, or some part of it. You may not like what I see, but I shall tell you only the truth that is revealed to me.
“Does that resolve your doubt? If not, take back your var and leave.”
She let go his hands and he felt a sudden chill, as if the contact had warmed him, suddenly afraid that she would dismiss him. “It resolves my doubts,” he said, “though I have questions I would ask.”
“Ask them.”
“I have heard the arguments of my father’s seers, and those of philosophers and scholars, and disagreement exists. Some say the future is preordained and cannot be altered. That a man’s path is fixed from the moment of his birth; that a governing pattern controls us all. Others claim there is no pattern and that a man’s actions determine his future. Or that the future is a series of alternatives, constantly branching, and that some of those branches may be foreseen, others not. What do you say?”
“That certain immutable truths appertain,” she replied, “and so a pattern of a kind does exist. That it is often hidden, even from seers. That a diviner can usually see some distance along that pattern, can foresee the branching for some way—that distance depending on his, or her, ability—but that none can foresee it all, simply because it is too large, the branching growing too intri
cate to comprehend.”
“Then the future is uncertain?”
“To an extent.”
“Then why am I here? Why should I bother consulting you?”
Her laughter was light as a fountain’s fall, amused, though empty of any hint of mockery.
“Because you are worried and you seek reassurance. Because you face a decision that is difficult to make and perhaps dangerous. Because you desire guidance you can find nowhere else. Because you are more than a little afraid of your father.”
The words held only truth and Calandryll sighed, admitting it.
“You are the younger son of the Domm of Secca,” Reba continued. “Your elder brother, Tobias, has reached his majority and soon will be confirmed as the Domm’s successor. In two years you attain majority and are expected to follow the traditional path, though your training for the office you are expected to choose must commence with Tobias’s confirmation. You do not wish to enter the priesthood, and you are in love.”
Everything she said was true: Calandryll stared at her in silence, awed.
“You would follow a scholarly path, were you able. You prefer books to blades and would be left alone to pursue those interests; but your father would make you a priest to avoid the possibility of your becoming a rival to your brother. The priesthood is sworn to celibacy, but you would marry—if she will have you and if you are allowed. You are not sure of her agreement and you know your father would object.”
“Bylath will not agree to my becoming a scholar,” he blurted, unable to restrain himself, resentment edging his voice. “And Tobias would wed Nadama himself. The den Ecvin family is powerful—if Nadama took me as her husband they would support me; but then Tobias would see me as a threat. Even though I have no wish to be Domm.”
“You might flee,” she said mildly. “To Aldarin or Wessyl; Hyme, perhaps. Secca is not the only city in Lysse.”
“But I am, irrevocably, the son of Secca’s Domm: a potential threat. Another city would likely see me as a tool to use against my father, or Tobias. In any other city I might be field hostage. Or given back to Secca. And Tobias would surely brand me rebel.”
“And your father will not allow you to become a scholar.”
He heard the pity in her voice and felt the weight of his youth, anger stirring. “My father has little use for scholars; less for a son who prefers books to swordwork or, as he puts it, ‘the furtherance of Secca’s interests.’ He knows I am no soldier and would make me a priest, but—the Goddess knows!—I want only to be left alone. To marry Nadama if she will have me, and study.”
He broke off, aware that his voice rose, part angry, part anguished, afraid that he whined, embarrassed again.
“It is no easy thing to be the Domm’s son,” Reba said gently.
“No,” he agreed. “People think it must be a grand thing—the wealth, the power, the luxury. But I should sooner have freer choice.”
“Yet you come to me, and surely that is a limitation of such free choice.”
Calandryll thought for a moment before shaking his head. “I do not think so,” he said slowly. “I do not ask you to tell me what to do, but to predict my future so that I may reach those decisions I must make with as much knowledge as I am able to gain.”
“Said like a true scholar,” Reba murmured, “Give me your hands.”
Once more he extended his arms and she took his hands, this time placing her palms against his, their fingers twining in a curious intimacy. It seemed a tingling pricked against his skin and for an instant his vision blurred, her face become indistinct, the room grown dark. Then he saw her clear again, the lanterns’ light filling her blank eyes with pinpoints of dancing gold as she began to speak.
“I cannot read you so clear as some, but more choices than one lie ahead. There is love, but perhaps not the love you anticipate: love has many forms. I see struggle; disappointment, but happiness, too. You will encounter two who will have great impact on your life. For good or ill, I cannot say. I perceive travel—a quest for which your scholar’s mind suits you well.
“You must bear your father’s anger, and your brother’s; be strong in the face of their wrath and you shall triumph. I…”
Her voice faltered and she shook her head, untangling her fingers from his.
“I can see no more. Should you wish me to plumb further, it will cost two varre. And I can offer you no promise of greater clarity.”
Without hesitation he set the coins on the table. Reba nodded, then rose, going to an alcove from which she lifted a box of ornate design, dark red lacquer and golden chasings. She set it down and raised the lid, removing a silver censer, a pouch, and a gallipot. Deftly, almost reverently, she set the censer on the table between them and from the pouch took a pinch of powder, sprinkling it over the silver. She opened the gallipot and dug inside with a forefinger.
“Open your mouth.”
Calandryll obeyed and she said, “Your tongue.”
He extended his tongue and she smeared a dab of ointment there. It tasted bitter. She touched her own and lidded the pot, setting it aside, then brought a taper from the box and lit the powder. Calandryll anticipated some dramatic flash of smoke and flame, but none came, only a thin wisp of white that was disturbed by their breath.
“Breath deep,” Reba advised.
The smoke was odorless, tasteless, and he felt no effect from its inhalation. Reba, however, commenced to sway gently from side to side, the golden flecks filling her eyes becoming agitated, seeming to swirl and twist of their own accord. Calandryll found them hypnotic, staring fixedly at her face, so that he was startled when she spoke again, the more so for the deepness of her voice, a low baritone that was more masculine than female, as though some unseen entity spoke through her, her lungs and throat and lips merely the vessels of its expression.
“You will seek that which cannot be had and find disappointment. But you will gain much; more than you lose. You will learn those things you reject and find that friendship is the strongest bond.
“There is water—beware the water, Calandryll! You must cross it to find what you seek, though men say it does not exist. There is danger, but you will be protected, not alone. There is a teacher, though you may not welcome his lessons. Trust him! And one will come after, also to be trusted.
“You will travel far and see things no southern man has seen, perhaps no man at all. There is … No! I cannot see it … It hides behind itself. It is forbidden … I cannot …”
The voice grew harsh, choking. Reba began to cough, and the strange spell was broken. The smoke wavered and died; Reba’s teeth snapped closed with an audible crack! and she shook her head, hair swirling wild about her face. Her head hung down, features veiled by the curtain of her long tresses. Her shoulders trembled and she braced herself against the table as though pressed down by the burden of her augury.
“There is wine.” A motion of her lowered head indicated the door. “Please.”
Alarmed, Calandryll sprang to his feet, a knee banging painfully against the table. He ignored the sudden ache, limping from the chamber into the darkness of the passage. Dim light showed to his left and he stumbled toward it, finding a door, opening that to find himself in a kitchen, an open window revealing a small garden, a well, sunlight and bird song. A flagon of wine stood on a table, earthenware cups beside. He took the flagon and two cups, carrying them back to Reba’s audience chamber.
She had regained her composure, though her face was pale, the pockmarks stark against the pallor. He filled both cups and set her hands about one. She drank the wine in a single swallow and held out the cup that he might pour her more. He drank his own in three drafts, filled her cup again and waited.
“Perhaps you had best heed your father.” Her voice regained its natural tone as she spoke. “There is one branch that holds great danger.”
“Tell me,” he urged, as intrigued as he was wary. “You spoke in riddles before.”
Reba shook her head; smoothed her hair. �
��I spoke as clear as I saw. The branchings are complex—and something clouds them. You will meet a man who will become your friend, your ally. You may not at first see that, but you will learn to trust him. You will journey with him; far.”
“Across water?” he prompted. “Even though water is dangerous? To Eyl? Or Kandahar?”
“Farther. This journey goes farther than any man has gone.”
“Why is water dangerous?” he asked.
“It is the domain of Burash.”
“The Sea God?” Calandryll gaped. “What offense have I offered Burash? Why should he harm me?”
“I cannot see that.” Reba shrugged. “A power clouds my vision. I see only that danger awaits you.”
“Eyl I might reach overland,” he murmured. “Even Kandahar, though the Shann lies in the path.”
Reba nodded. “Yes, but you will cross water. If you follow this path.”
“I have a choice?” he demanded.
“There is always choice,” she returned. “Though in your case it is limited by desire.”
“I can obey my father?” he muttered.
“One choice.”
He ducked his head, curtly. “What is the thing I travel for?”
“I could not see that. It is thought to be lost, though what it is, I cannot tell you. You will be told.”
“By this friend I am to find?”
“Perhaps.” She shook her head helplessly. “So much is vague; unclear. There is a great destiny ahead, should you choose this path.”
“But not a scholar’s life?”
Reba smiled, a wan expression. “You may learn things unknown. More than Secca’s greatest scholars. More than the philosophers of Aldarin.”
That possibility at least appealed and he smiled at the prospect. Had she not spoken of this unknown friend teaching him? “I can make sacrifice to Burash,” he murmured. “Propitiate the god.”
Reba nodded slowly. Calandryll frowned as one disturbing doubt intruded. “What of Nadama?” he asked.
“She may be gained, or lost,” the spaewife said. “I perceive that you are not sure of her decision. Tobias, too, seeks her hand, and I cannot predict which of you she will choose, not from you alone.”