Legend would have had him believe that Eyja, the woman who over time had simply become known as the Seer, lived in a dark cave, hiding from a world that had wronged her. It came as some surprise to him to discover a neatly kept little cottage with careful thatch, nestling within the shelter of the cliffs rising on the island’s west side. The dwelling showed no signs of the weather, and could have been built that very morning. It was made of rough, uncut stone and smooth, pale wood, and was startlingly devoid of bird droppings. This seemed even more peculiar when one took into account the vast number of seabirds congregating on the shore. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of them, their voices raised in angry, squawking dispute. A never-ending battle for supremacy.
Brynjolf began walking up the pebble beach that led to the Seer’s cottage, his steps hesitant and uncertain.
Don’t be afraid, Brynjolf. You have come this far. Do you think I would harm you now? Do you fear that I will cast you down to the rocks and leave you broken? Or perhaps you believe the tale that I dine on the flesh of those who drowned in their attempts to reach me?
He didn’t respond. He had heard the tales, and did not relish the idea of finding out if any of them were true. He faltered now, afraid to enter the woman’s sanctuary and lay his problem before her. It was the final test. Elements could be defied, wind and sea overcome by strength or skill, but there was no greater enemy to a man than his own heart.
Brynjolf set his jaw and buried his doubts. His despair was too great to turn back now. He felt the hesitance in his steps melt away and strode with purpose to the door of the cottage. He did not allow himself the time to dwell upon what he was about to do as he pushed it open. Taking a deep breath, he stepped into the incense-laden air.
Immediately, a sense of peace stole over him, a feeling he had long forgotten, and he breathed more easily than he had done in many days. He could feel the weight of his worries rise from his shoulders, lifted into the curling smoke and carried away from him.
The windows of the little cottage were small and dim, and the grey light filtering from outside barely illuminated the pale haze. Brynjolf glanced around the interior. Everything was swathed in shadow and heady scent, making him feel as though he was caught up in some kind of dream. A good dream, though. He couldn’t remember being so relaxed.
‘What brings you to my threshold, Brynjolf Gellirson?’
He could hear her, but he could not see her. Whilst this was more than a little perplexing, he found he did not mind. To hear the Seer’s voice was like listening to a choir of heavenly voices working in harmony, many-layered and tantalising. It was musical and lilting, low in pitch, reminding Brynjolf of being a younger man, when first he’d looked for love. Thinking of such things reminded him sharply of his reasons for battling the gale to reach her.
‘Seer, I need to beg a favour of your gift of foresight. The future of my line is in doubt, and my standing in the village weakens.’
The shadows in the corner shifted and a figure emerged. The Seer was tall, and although she seemed slender, the heavy robe she wore hid her figure. The hood was drawn up and over her face. All Brynjolf could see of her features beneath were a few wisps of pale blonde hair and a glimmer of eyes the colour of rock pools after a storm.
‘The future of your line? Your woman has lost another babe?’
Brynjolf wondered how she could possibly have known that, but then reminded himself of whose house he stood in.
He did not know how easily she read people, their expressions, their choices, and the way they stood. He also didn’t know how frequently she moved amongst the people of the coast—unknown and unseen—and listened to the tales and the gossip.
She sought always to avoid the use of her power if she could. It was not as folk believed it to be. She did not scry, or read the fates in a bowl of water, or bloody entrails or sodden herbs. It was a blade that cut two ways.
In the many years she had lived here, she had bestowed her gift on fewer than a score of people.
‘Four she has lost now,’ confirmed Brynjolf. ‘And she is carrying a fifth. The healers say that all is well, that she is carrying as she should, but the fifth moon approaches. Each babe has been lost at this time. I must know, Seer. Will this child live? Will it live and continue my line? Will she give me a son? I cannot bear to lose another.’
It was the unspoken that moved the Seer. Brynjolf’s words seemed selfish, that he cared only for his continued status amongst his people. But she heard the tremor in his voice, saw the light of fierce love and loyalty in his eyes. He was here for his wife just as much as he was here for himself.
‘Calm yourself, Brynjolf,’ she said, and her tone became kinder, softer. He took a deep breath and looked up at her, tears in his eyes.
‘I would give all that I have to see this child live.’
The Seer closed the distance between them and put a long, slender finger to his lips. He fell silent, startled by the gesture.
‘Be careful what you wish for, Brynjolf. It may yet come to pass. Now sit. I will make tea. We will talk, and together, you and I, we will look at the future.’ She took her finger from his lips and steered him gently by the shoulder down into a chair by a small table. Then she reached up and pushed back her hood.
Her beauty was breathtaking. To believe the women of the village, the Seer had to have seen at least sixty winters, yet she did not look to have seen more than thirty at most. Her skin was alabaster pale with the faintest hint of rose touching her cheeks. There was not a line, not a wrinkle to be seen. The skin looked soft and plump and flawlessly smooth. Her grey eyes were mesmerising and he could hardly bring himself to drag his attention from that stormy gaze. Her long, white-blonde hair, freed from the hood, fell about her elfin face; the small, pointed chin and the exquisite rosebud lips. She seemed more a child’s doll than a flesh and blood woman.
Brynjolf gazed up at her, his eyes wide and adoring, and she gave him a very slight smile before reaching over and gently pushing his jaw closed. ‘Close your mouth, Brynjolf, I have no need of a fly catcher.’
Embarrassed, he looked away and focused on the hazy smoke rising through the shafts of light slanting in through the window whilst the Seer moved around her cottage. Her movements were light and graceful, and there was an elegance to her as she filled two cups from the kettle hanging over the cook fire. She crumbled pungent herbs into the water and carried them to the table.
‘Chamomile and vanilla,’ she said, by way of an explanation. She pushed a pot of clear honey towards him. ‘Add as much or as little as you need to blunt the bitterness. It will calm you. Then we will talk.’ Again, that little smile that brought more light to him than any of the windows. He nodded and put a spoonful of honey into his tea, copying her lead. A tentative sip surprised him with its taste.
Halfway down the cup, he could already feel himself begin to calm. Even the simple act of sipping the tea served to relax him, and the Seer knew her remedies well. She set down her mug and reached over to catch Brynjolf’s free hand in both of her own. Her hands were as soft and smooth as the skin on her face, contrasting with Brynjolf’s calloused and worn hands: hands that worked ropes and trawled nets. Hands that built and shaped and gave so much to the village in which he lived. He was a hard worker, a kind-hearted man in a strong, healthy body. He worked too hard sometimes, often more hours than were good for him, but everything he did, he did for others. There was nobility in his bearing and strength in everything he did.
In another lifetime, she might have said he had a Viking spirit. But that age had passed. The memories and the legends lived on, but the world was not what it had been.
He looked up into her eyes, puzzled by the sudden contact. She was examining his hand thoughtfully, tracing a finger across the lines of his palm and concentrating hard. Her expression was neutral and unreadable.
‘Your wife carries a boy-child,’ she said, quietly. ‘The son that you both yearn for. The infant who will bear your name and continue your line.
How far back can you trace your ancestry, Brynjolf?’
‘Many generations,’ he replied, captivated by her words and filled to the brim with joy at the news his wife carried a son. The joy was quickly pierced with fear as he remembered his reasons for his journey here. ‘My son...’ he began.
‘Hush,’ she replied, mildly. ‘Be still. I need you to close your eyes for me, Brynjolf. Close your eyes and breathe deeply. Relax. Let your body rest for a while. You are safe here. Safe and protected from the world beyond this door.’ She continued in this manner for a little while and he did everything as instructed, closing his eyes and inhaling the sweet-smelling smoke deeply. He could feel himself slipping deeper into the dream that had crept upon him as he had entered.
He felt the softest of breezes caress his face, and in his imagination, he fancied that he was riding the prow of his fishing boat, looking out to sea and fighting back ancestral memories that urged him to become something more than just a fisherman. A small smile touched his lips.
A fey white light played about Eyja, and everything that Brynjolf had been and could ever be stretched out before her. A million— and more—moments of joy, pain, laughter and sadness. The Seer, the Weaver, She Who Sees—all these were names by which she had been known during her life, and all of them spoke truth. She could read the lives of those few who came before her and, if the need was great, redirect the winds of fate to alter what would be. But the cost was equally great.
The cost was too great.
For every life saved, another would be lost in its place. For every misfortune prevented, another must be suffered. Men and women had come to her, begging on their knees for her intervention. She had given it, and they had thanked her and left with joy in their hearts. Then she would force herself to watch and endure the consequences. The Seer hated the thing which others called a ‘gift.’ It was a curse, nothing more.
But this man, this kind, selfless man, had come to her in desperation. She had rarely met anybody so deserving. She would do what he asked and she would explain to him the price. Sadly, she knew before she even spoke that he would willingly pay it.
‘Brynjolf,’ she said, in that same hypnotic tone. His eyes did not open and she knew he was caught in the moment. ‘Brynjolf, the fates played out the skein of your life long ago, and if it were to remain unaltered, then your son would not live. No, do not grieve for him, not yet.’ She stroked a hand down his arm gently. ‘Listen to me. He can be spared. What you desperately yearn for can be yours, dear Brynjolf, but it must come at a cost.’
‘I would give all that I have,’ he whispered dreamily, echoing his words from earlier. The Seer sighed gently and wiped away the tears that glistened in her eyes.
‘Are you sure of that, Brynjolf? It is... a high price to pay.’
‘Tell me, Seer.’
She told him. And he accepted, just as she had known he would.
Genoa
Italy
MATHIAS BOBBED TO the surface, gasping for air, and floundered across to the unmoving body of Tagan, floating ominously face-down a few feet away. He put his arms around her carefully and turned her over.
‘No, no, no,’ he said and his tone was filled with a desperation a young man should never have to give voice to. He touched a hand to her face, his expression contorted with a terrible grief. ‘This isn’t happening. She can’t be dead.’
A moment later, Warin spluttered to the surface. Water streamed from his hair and beard, and his expression was thunderous. The Pirate King emerged more gracefully until he stood easily on the surface of the sea. His gaze went immediately to Mathias and Tagan, and then to the prow of the ship bearing down on them.
‘Are you trying to drown us? Where are we?’ The Shapeshifter’s rage was a terrifying thing. Then his eyes fell upon Tagan and his protests died instantly, snuffed out by concern.
‘Welcome to the Mediterranean,’ Giraldo said grimly. He stepped lightly across the waves and crouched beside the two young people, his expression grave. He gently prised Mathias’s hands off Tagan and gathered her up in his arms.
‘Get on board,’ he said. ‘We can do nothing for her here. I have her, lad. Don’t fear what we don’t yet know for sure.’ He nodded towards the rope ladder that the crew had lowered down the side of the boat, and Warin propelled himself towards it, climbing up with wobbly hesitation. Mathias paused for a few moments, then nodded and swam to join his mentor, climbing the ladder with no more grace.
Giraldo came last, holding Tagan in his arms. He shifted the young woman’s weight to his shoulder as he swung easily up the ladder, then set her down on the deck of the ship, lying on her side. She lay there, unmoving, and as Mathias looked over her anxiously, it appeared she was also completely unharmed.
‘No wound,’ he said, bafflement evident in his tone. ‘But she took that shot that was meant for me. She...’
Tagan coughed weakly, and a mouthful of water gushed up from her lungs onto the deck. She coughed again and opened her eyes, blinking slowly. Her gaze sought out Mathias immediately, and when she saw him, standing close by, only then did she start to cry. Her betrothed knelt by her side and helped her to sit up; she threw her arms around him and buried her face in his shoulder.
‘Tohias, fetch brandy for our guests. Quickly, now,’ Giraldo ordered his first mate calmly. ‘Dry clothing, too. We can find something for them all. Get to it.’ He turned his attention back to the tableau before him, as did most of the crew of his vessel. Warin simply stood, dripping sea water onto the deck, his face grim.
‘Why did you do that?’ Mathias’s voice was choked with tears of his own. ‘You stupid woman!’ He wasn’t angry at her; in truth, he wasn’t angry at all, but still reeling from the horror of seeing her fling herself in the path of the Inquisitor’s shot.
‘All I could see was that I was going to lose you,’ she choked out between sobs. ‘All I wanted to do was stop it from happening. I just did what felt right.’
‘You could have died!’
‘So could you!’
They went on in this vein for a little while until Giraldo knelt down beside them, taking one of Tagan’s hands in his own. Her tears continued to flow, but she stopped sobbing as she looked up at him, then down at her hand. The palm was covered with silvery spots.
‘You could have died,’ the Pirate King said, ‘but you did not. Look, Tagan. Look at your hands.’
She unhooked her arms from around Mathias’s neck and did as Giraldo said. Both were the same; flecked with a silvery metal. She stared at her hands in confusion and uncertainty.
‘What exactly did you do when you threw yourself in front of Mathias?’ Giraldo’s tone was gentle, filled with quiet wonder.
‘I just wanted to save him,’ came the artless reply. ‘I stepped in front of him. I put my hands up...’
All eyes fixed on her hands and Giraldo gave her a half smile. ‘You certainly saved him,’ he said.
Warin spoke up, his voice gruff and carrying a tinge of respect that had not been there before. ‘You melted the bullet before it could strike. Your magic is a lot more powerful than I felt it to be, Tagan.’ He looked over at Giraldo and the two exchanged nods. Mathias didn’t understand the gesture, but sensed that something important had passed between them.
‘Come,’ said Giraldo. ‘She can use my cabin while she is here. There will be brandy and warm clothes. Then hot food, hmm?’ His voice was soft, coaxing and decidedly hypnotic. The more Mathias thought about it, the more he agreed. He helped the sniffling Tagan to her feet and followed Giraldo to the captain’s cabin.
The Island of the Seer
Denmark
AFTER BRYNJOLF LEFT, Eyja stood atop the highest cliff, watching the tiny boat as its sailor pulled back towards the mainland. Brynjolf’s acceptance of what was necessary to ensure his son’s survival was easier to bear than most. He would have a few years, enough to see the child grow a little. It was more than most received. Her last two visitors had drowned in the course
of their journey home, caught in sudden squalls that blew up out of nowhere. Those for whom they had petitioned had lived, for what little comfort that may have brought.
With eyes as sharp as a raptor’s, she watched the distant figure pull the boat up onto the shore and run joyfully towards the village. He would soon be celebrating the birth of his new son. There would be a great feast in celebration. Much mead would be passed around, and in his happiness, he would forget to invite Eyja. She would remain as she ever was; apart from the people, shunned until the next time they needed a boon. She felt no bitterness at this, it had ever been thus.
Isolation was her refuge, her protection from the world and its infinite possibilities. When she walked among the people, robed and hooded, she saw their lives stretched out before them, the decisions they would make and the consequences of those decisions. Every possible future mapped out again and again and again, an impossibly complex weave, as changing as the winds. She insulated herself against it, but the temptation was constant.
A twitch to help a starving child, a nudge to spare a loving mother on her sick bed. It was so easy to do, and it made her heart ache to have the power to change everything, but have to force herself not to.
Every night she stood on the cliffs, her perfect face upturned to the heavens, allowing the winds of the Danish coast to chill her blood, and every night she peered into the tangled knot of possibility that surrounded her future. Always it was in flux, countless threads of possibility branching into ever more threads... and so on until they extended far beyond her reach.
Tonight however, one of those threads shone brightly. She carefully followed its path to where it joined many others and became bound, a pendulum cord upon which one future hung. She sighed softly as she withdrew her vision, her path chosen.
Heirs of the Demon King: Uprising Page 19