Rise of the Seer

by Brandon Barr

  “Thank you, but I know my way there.”

  She left them and made her way to the feeding rooms. Each had wall slits that let in the dull light from outside. Her hand fingered the lining of her fur coat’s pocket. Within was the sealed letter. She reprimanded herself for being so nervous. It was right what she was about to do. All would go well.

  It didn’t take long to find Mica, who was in the middle of ordering supplies with two merchants. Mica had a mess of dark brown hair that curled to his ears and, as he stood there in conversation, she noted the strong, even fearsome, posture with which he carried himself. His folded arms were strong, his chin raised. But this was offset by kind eyes that seemed to switch from green to blueish-gray every time she encountered him.

  At the sight of her, the three men bowed.

  “May I speak with you alone, Mica?”

  “Of course, My Lady.”

  The merchants left quickly, and Mica was suddenly alone, looking at her. Something felt different. Nothing about him had changed—it was something inside her.

  This was the fourth time she’d gone out of her way to find him. The first time she had spoken no more than a few sentences of thanks for his help to her father on patrols, but the second time she’d come prepared with questions. It had dawned on her that Mica might know a good amount about the politics of their realm working in the stables, where travelers from every city and land came to put up horses while at the Hold. Surely he overheard many conversations and glimpsed a wide range of perspectives. The second and third visits with Mica had motivated her even more toward her political goals—the restoration of peace between the Blue Mountain Hold and the Verdlands. Not that she hadn’t relished his presence before—his eyes, his full lips, the timbre of his voice—but something now felt different. More intense.

  For one, her heart was beating much too fast. Secondly, instead of speaking, she was standing there, wondering what it would be like to be kissed by him.

  “Come to hear the talk of the realm?” asked Mica with a kind smile.

  “Yes,” she said, suddenly feeling flustered.

  She realized how awkward she was being, and wrestled her pointless imaginings aside.

  “But first, I have an urgent letter that needs delivered.” After a deep breath, she withdrew the letter from her coat. “I need your most trusted rider to carry this to King Feaor.”

  A seriousness marked Mica’s brow. “I know just the one. Tanaclast, she has run the route to the Verdlands for your father before. She can arrive in four days if you need her to go without rest.”

  “The need is there, but, if she is able, I need her to do it in three.”

  Mica nodded. “I will tell her.”

  “No, I want to tell her myself. Can you take me to her?”

  “Better, I’ll bring her here.” Mica shouted out a name, and a boy came running through the door.

  “Fetch Tanaclast,” said Mica to the boy. “She is to be ready to ride for an urgent mission. Go on now, run like a tiger!”

  The boy grinned then tore off at a sprint.

  Mica’s warm eyes found hers again. “I’ll ready Tanaclast’s horse with supplies.”

  Meluscia waited and watched. Mica left, then returned with a large black horse. He fitted a light saddle to it, and a pack of supplies. The contours of his muscular arms shone through the long shirt he wore as he tightened straps and adjusted the reins.

  It was not long before a small girl appeared wearing leathers and carrying a sack. She took one look at Meluscia then hurried up to her and bowed.

  “I am Tanaclast, My Lady. What errand do you have for me?”

  Meluscia held out the letter. “No one must hear of this. If anyone asks what you carry, tell them something trivial. If possible, avoid talking to anyone altogether. No one is to know what you truly carry—and that is an urgent message for King Feaor. Speak no word of it until you arrive at the Verdlands’ castle.” Meluscia turned to Mica. “And the same goes for you, Stable Master. Don’t speak of this to anyone.” She looked at him earnestly. “Only my father, me, and the two of you know of it.”

  “I understand,” said Mica.

  Tanaclast moved beside her horse. “Shall I expect King Feaor to send a reply in return?”

  “Yes,” said Meluscia. “It is my hope he will. I am told you can make the journey in four days?”

  Tanaclast nodded.

  “If you are able, try for three.”

  In one smooth motion, Tanaclast mounted the large black horse. “I’ll give you all I have,” she said, then kicked the sides of the horse with a shout and tore away.

  Meluscia watched the rider disappear, the finality of her decision falling on her. A sense of excitement brought with it an inner confidence. Boldness was what she needed. Her father’s approval would not be won by anything else.

  She looked back to Mica.

  Her mind turned to the questions she’d rehearsed.

  “Um, what have you heard of late?”

  Mica’s eyes fell to her leather shoes for a moment. “Anger. At King Feaor and the Verdlands, and at kingdom politics in general. People are hungry. They’re tired of fish.”

  Meluscia nodded. “Is any of their anger directed at the Hold? At our inability to restore our relationship with the Verdlands?”

  His eyes met hers. “I cannot tell a lie there,” he said. “Yes, some grow frustrated with the Luminar. There is so much talk on the roads and villages, people are not clear on what the Hold is doing to make things right again.”

  It had been a month since Meluscia had come to Mica. She was relieved to hear him pick up where he left off. Last time, she’d had to push him to speak words as plain as these, for he had been reticent to mention any ill thoughts regarding the Hold or the Luminar. He knew whose daughter she was, so his reservations were understandable. This fourth time meeting with him, it had only taken a second question for him to share the real sentiment amongst the people.

  He was beginning to trust her.

  It was very odd, her knowing so much about who he was, and him knowing nothing of her but for these few talks.

  “I want to thank you, My Lady, for you and your father’s generosity toward your servants. I’ve heard it is mostly your doing that we are so treated with food.”

  Meluscia shrugged. “I can’t seem to keep Mairena quiet about that.”

  Mica laughed. The sound had become so familiar, but now it was her making him laugh.

  It brought her back instantly to when Mica had been curled up with Praseme, the laughter that had spilled so warmly from his lips. It wasn’t quite the same, but it was similar, and somehow her mind unhelpfully raced to other more intimate memories of him and Praseme. Memories he did not know she had. What would he do if she was Praseme now, standing before him? Would he reach out and touch her? Embrace her and kiss her?

  “Was there something else you wanted to ask me, My Lady?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, her face flushed. “I get lost in my mind sometimes.”

  She grasped for another question.

  “What do you think about the Hold?” Meluscia finally asked. “And please, I don’t want placating answers. If I am made Luminess, I need to know how the people of the realm feel. And that includes you. What can I do to serve you, Mica?”

  His surprise at her words delighted her. He took in a deep breath, his gaze drifting up over her head.

  “Just peace in the land,” said Mica finally. “Why fight with the Verdlands when Nightmares roam our borders? If we had peace with our neighbors, we would have all that we need.”

  His words silenced her. They were the very words of her soul! Curses on Praseme! Why hadn’t Meluscia found this man before her? He’d married a peasant when he could have had a—she stopped herself.

  It wasn’t possible…not if she was to be Luminess. But then…

  Adulyyn’s words echoed in her ears.

  A secret lover.

  And yet, all that she’d learned und
er Katlel in the Scriptorium, the plainness of the sacred writings, these fought against her teasing desires.

  A small burn of anger stirred in her chest. It was new, for it was directed at the gods. Where was their help? Why should she sacrifice so much—her devotion, her intimacy, when they remained silent in the grand scheme of a realm suffering?

  Her people were struggling…so where were the good Makers? If they were callous to the cries of her people, what did they care about the principles of customs and the scriptures?

  Still, she had cherished these ideals for so long. It would take more than a day to tear them from her heart.

  She turned from her thoughts and looked deeply into Mica’s eyes.

  There were other ways. If she was so taken with this man, she could willingly pass her throne to him. Pass it on, and let him lead. That had been done before. The thought of it clashed within her. Truly, she wanted to be the one to lead her people.

  But even if she were willing to pass on the throne to Mica, that too was beyond her reach.

  He already had Praseme.

  Chapter Eighteen

  SAVARAH

  Savarah crouched behind the last large tangle of ferns between her and the line of trees separating forest from wasteland. A group of Nightmares—four goatthroats and a razor arm—were grunting and whining as they worked to rebuild the mine entrance she and Trigon’s patrol had destroyed. Beyond the small troop of Nightmares, at the edge of ancient oak and pine, was the abrupt desolation of encroaching desert. From her vantage point, it looked like an endless sea of poxed land, the hewn stumps protruding from the dirt like boils on skin that had once been fair. The trees had been felled and carried across rocky desert wilderness to the sweet grasslands of Praelothia, the vast city of the Star Garden Realm. It was the only remaining city, the rest laid long abandoned, ruins haunted by her master’s creations. The Praelothians were safely sheltered away from the outside, their immense city surrounded by walls that grew taller and thicker as each year passed.

  For the first time in her life, she felt a small measure of pity for the Praelothian people. They were like an orchard of fruit trees, and Isolaug, her master, was their cultivator. Their blind, controlled lives created the illusion of a beautiful culture and a rich religion when they were no more than an ornamental garden covering her master’s powerful secrets.

  Deep beneath the garden lay chambers where an army of creatures grew in sunless dark, waiting for night to come. The Praelothians were food, shelter, and seed for her master and his army.

  Savarah herself was born of a Praelothian mother and father, but she had been raised a Shadowman, and she had dominated the other seedlings, maiming and killing her way to the top under the eye of her master. In a way, she was no different than the Praelothians, except that she and the other seedlings were willing tools of Isolaug, conditioned and trained to hunger for his ends.

  Her master’s desires could be as small as pushing the human kingdoms of Hearth to become enemies with each other, or as large as ruling every world in their galaxy and then turning his eye toward the other six. In the six hundred years of Isolaug’s rule over the Star Garden Realm, the portal at the center of Praelothia had returned high dividends, bringing her master’s influence far beyond their own world.

  With each competitor she slew, her master told her more secrets, gave her more power.

  More praise.

  How her soul devoured his praise. It was not love. She’d been warned about love. But praise and position—her master had taught her to yearn for them. Every silver spiked Quahi one attained unlocked more knowledge, opened more doors, and bent more knees at your feet. Envy drove one to greatness. It was the anthem of the Shadowmen. It had been her anthem until a week ago, when her meticulously deadened heart finally snapped while out on patrol, and she could no longer deny the beautiful weakness constantly assaulting her eyes and ears.

  Love.

  It was power. Seductive in its foolishness, pathetic in its sacrificial care for the other, just as she’d been warned under her master’s teaching. Love made its exhibitors weak and vulnerable.

  When a black tiger took Kaurkim by the arm and Jardi shot it through the eye, it was such a pithy act of extravagance, saving a foolish man’s life. But for her, it was the last breath of a girl drowning in a strange sea, her master’s teachings slipping from her outstretched fingers as she sank beneath the warm, exotic waters. She’d witnessed a hundred other more loving acts that were far more stupid and vulnerable, but this simple killing of an animal to save a foolish man’s life was the slash that opened her soul. Jardi should have let Kaurkim die. The people she had been trained to betray were bleeding hearts. Weakened by sympathy. Susceptible.

  How else could she explain what happened ten years ago? She, an eleven-year-old girl crawling out of the forest, met by Trigon’s patrol. They drank up her story like ale. And to her amazement, the Luminar had been so moved, she’d found herself brought in as his mercy child. And Meluscia and her mother Rhissa took to her as if she were a true sister and daughter. Perhaps that monumental idiocy and openness was what pushed her so far so fast. Even three years ago, as she’d poisoned the Luminar and his wife with the sunweed blight, she’d had to fight off powerful emotions that threatened to weaken her resolve.

  As strange and petty as it was, watching the men rush to Kaurkim’s side broke her. How they had comforted him as if he deserved to live.

  He didn’t deserve life. He was weak. Unskilled.

  Even though she would never make such a shit-brained mistake to warrant such pathetic sympathy, deep down, she envied the pity shown to the man. And that envy had pressed like a dagger through her well-armored heart.

  Her eyes had stung as she clutched the reins of her patrol horse. Her chest crashed with waves of warmth. The emotion was delicious. The weakness intoxicating.

  It drove her now. This love. This weakness.

  And she was going to kill for it. Strategically, one by one, kill every key game piece that her master had in place.

  If she survived killing her fellow Shadowmen, then she could turn her eyes to Praelothia, and upon her master. In his animal form, Isolaug was mortal. At least, his body was.

  It could be killed, and his plans destroyed.

  She stood, bow in hand, and walked steadily forward. As of yet, the Nightmares had not seen her. She loosed two arrows in quick succession, and skewered the two goatthroats through the eye, killing them instantly. One of them fell back onto the much larger razor arm. The freakish creature, half-clothed in rags held loosely by ropes, turned and saw her. The lips of its vermin-like mouth drew back, its snout wrinkling with skin. A warning squeal gargled from its throat, and the two remaining goatthroats jerked in startled alarm.

  Two more arrows and all four goatthroats lay still or twitching in the dirt. The razor arm looked at her with something like rage and fear. It backed away, waving the long serrated bone that protruded from its right elbow. Its other hand, a hairy rat paw, clawed the air as if trying to keep her at bay.

  Savarah continued to storm forward, attaching her bow to her quiver and drawing a knife. Her left shoulder ached horribly from the black tiger’s claw, but even so, she was not worried.

  The razor arm stopped, seeing the impossibility of escape. It hissed, then tried to speak with its rat-mouth. The only comprehensible words Savarah caught were, “away” and “rock.”

  It crouched as she approached, but even in a crouch it was a head above her. Its skinny, malnourished legs bowed out like a spider’s. The serrated bone extending from its elbow was drawn back, ready to fly forward at her if she came any closer.

  “Isolaug will not give you sugars if you lose,” said Savarah, her words confusing the creature. She sprang forward, her knife meeting the razor arm’s thrust and deflecting it harmlessly past her. Inside the creature’s guard, she plunged her knife into its right shoulder. The thing squealed in pain, then its teeth came down at her. She lifted her forearm. It bit
with all its strength.

  Its mouth struck the forged iron arm bracer beneath her cloak, and its rotting teeth exploded and sprayed.

  Savarah drew the knife out of the dazed creature’s shoulder and drove the small pommel of the end into the side of its stunted ear. The blow sent the creature backward onto the ground. It fumbled half-conscious to right itself.

  She pounced on it, quickly using the rope that held its clothes to bind its serrated arm. Finished, she stood and observed her catch. It was a larger razor arm, but weak and frail from its trip across the desert. She needed to feed it well, strengthen its muscles, and hastily attend to the stab wound she’d given it. If she hoped to be back at the Hold by sundown tomorrow, she would need the creature to travel all night and day, and with speed.

  If the razor arm wasn’t strong and healthy, it would be useless to her. It could rest when she reached Hearth’s Scat, the volcanic spew plain covered in porous black rock.

  She waved a large piece of dried meat before its mouth. The sunken, half-human eyes looked at her. Slowly, it opened its mouth and drew the meat in with its bloodied gums.

  Chapter Nineteen

  MELUSCIA

  Meluscia knocked on the wooden door of her sister’s room, hoping she had returned in the night from wherever it was she’d disappeared to. Meluscia was eager to see her unruly face—and to talk with her, especially now, after their last encounter over a week ago. She truly wanted to find out what had caused the change in her sister, but even more than that, she wanted to confide in her. The turmoil in her head was in desperate need of a listening ear.

  When there was no answer to her knocking, she opened the door and peered inside. The wall hook where Savarah hung her bow and quiver was empty. She was gone into the forest, and that meant there was no telling when she’d be back.

  Years ago, Meluscia’s mother and father had been forced to grow accustomed to Savarah’s strange tendency to disappear, and so had she. At first, when her sister was only eleven and twelve, her father had sent search parties out, but they never found her. Days or weeks would pass and inevitably, Savarah would return from the forest in good health. When asked why she had gone and what she was doing, her answer was always the same. She was out hunting for her parents’ murderers. And her wild, abrasive nature left even her father inept at how to respond other than to set rules for her.