The Seer

by Rowan McAllister

“They are now.”

  Before Ravi could argue, Daks stood, collected the bowl from him, and then headed for the door.

  “We’ll be back with the horses in a few minutes,” he called brusquely over his shoulder.

  Ravi glared at his retreating back until his gaze seemed to drop lower of its own accord. Why did the man have to be so, so—bossy? Solid? Thick?

  “Irritating,” he settled on with firmness, as the man’s firm, round ass disappeared from view.

  Chapter Eight

  THE FIRST day into their journey through the boglands, Daks began to regret his earlier optimism pretty much immediately. It rained. All. Day. Long.

  No one spoke. They all rode in heavy, wet silence, hunched over their saddles, trying to keep as much of the cold rain from finding its way inside their cloaks as they could. Even the horses’ heads were bowed as they trudged along berms that only marginally kept them out of the swampy muck to either side and sometimes narrowed to little more than overgrown deer tracks.

  As sullen silence seemed to be Ravi’s normal state of being, when he wasn’t arguing or complaining, Daks couldn’t tell if he was as miserable as the rest of the party. He sat stiffly in the saddle and hadn’t leaned back against Daks’s chest even once—which was a little disappointing. Daks could have used some physical comfort while being surrounded by so much damned water.

  Never again, he promised himself. He was never coming back to this sodden, Rift-blighted kingdom again if he could help it.

  That night they made camp where the “road” finally widened enough to fit them all and a few straggly trees provided some cover. The rain made any attempt at a fire futile, so they simply tucked into a meal of dried meat, cheese, and bread and curled under what cover the trees could afford.

  Ravi hadn’t said more than two words all day, and after taking his ration of food, he settled under a tree as far away from the rest of them as the small clearing allowed. Daks frowned at him but didn’t say anything. They were all wet, tired, and cold. Making it an early night meant they could start fresh in the morning, and hopefully Shura’s sky god, Tomok, would have finally emptied his bladder by then. When Shura and Fara curled up together under a second tree, Daks shot one more disgruntled look in Ravi’s direction before finding his own slightly drier place to bed down with a bottle of ale… alone.

  As she’d done the day before, Shura took point when they headed out in the morning. She had the best sense of direction and tracking abilities of all of them. He was relying on her to keep them from wandering off the barely visible track and getting hopelessly mired in the foul-smelling muck.

  Daks and Ravi brought up the rear on Horse while Mistress Sabin tugged the pack mule behind her mare in between. The rain had finally stopped sometime in the night. And even though water dripped from every reed, leaf, or vine, and heavy mists blanketed the ground all around them, at least Daks didn’t have to feel the constant maddening beat of droplets on his head and shoulders, and the wool of his cloak might actually have a chance to dry.

  He tried to distract himself from their agonizing, plodding progress by studying their surroundings, but even when the mists lifted somewhat in the afternoon, there wasn’t much to see. The boglands were aptly named, even if the title wasn’t particularly imaginative. Clusters of trees like the ones they’d slept under dotted the landscape where the ground rose above the waterline, but beyond that remained only a sea of tall grasses, broken by pools of reed-filled, brackish water.

  How could anyone choose to live out here? But Vasin had warned them to stick to the border tracks because the bog-dwellers weren’t particularly welcoming to strangers.

  By midmorning, the clouds had passed enough for the sun to filter weakly through the fog, but that only added to the otherworldly feel of the place, and he scowled and tightened his hands on the reins to keep from shuddering.

  “Nice place,” he quipped, anything to break the oppressive silence. “Can’t imagine why more people don’t settle here.”

  Ravi startled in front of him, as if Daks had woken him, and Daks experienced a little niggle of guilt, but only a niggle. He was so bored. Beyond keeping an eye out behind them and using his gift to scan for pain priests, Spawn, or large gatherings of people, he had nothing to do but stare at the back of Ravi’s hood, the women’s cloaks, and the rumps of the horses and donkey ahead of him. It didn’t help matters that the place was as eerily oppressive to his other sense as it was to look at. He didn’t try to stretch his gift too far, partly because he wasn’t sure he wanted to know what lived out there.

  “No one really knows how many people actually live in the boglands,” Ravi said quietly, and Daks sighed with relief. He was spooking himself.

  “Oh?” he prodded.

  “In Rassat, it’s said that temple postings out here are more of a punishment than an honor, reserved for troublemakers in the Brotherhood,” Ravi thankfully continued. “The people don’t like outsiders, and I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who came from here in Rassat.”

  “That’s what Vasin said at the farm. They come out to trade sometimes, but that’s it…. Which hopefully means they’ll leave us alone, as long as we do the same for them.”

  “Do you, uh, sense anything out there?” Ravi asked hesitantly.

  “If you mean pain priests, then no, I don’t sense any nearby. I’m keeping my senses open, just in case. If there are any within a few miles of us, I’ll know it. As I said before, though, I won’t be able to feel if another Sensitive is nearby.”

  Ravi remained silent for a few beats before he asked, “What about other things?”

  Daks cocked an eyebrow at him, but Ravi still faced forward, and his hood was up, as usual. “Other things?”

  Despite Daks’s heroic efforts at keeping a considerate distance between them, Ravi’s ass brushed the front of his trousers as the man shifted in the saddle. Between that and their eerie surroundings, Daks was grateful Vasin and his family hadn’t been stingy with the ale when he’d resupplied them. He’d need it tonight.

  He swallowed an aggrieved sigh, did a little shifting of his own, and struggled to pay attention as Ravi cleared his throat and replied, “Yes, things. You know, like magical things or Spawn?”

  Ravi nearly whispered that last word, and Daks had to fight a smile. But then the more he thought about the question, the quicker his smile fell away. How hard it must be for the people of Rassa to have so little control of the world around them, to be so dependent on such a small group of brothers to protect them.

  In Samebar, nearly every town and village had at least a few wardstones or a Sensitive or something to warn them if Riftspawn were in the area. A select few even kept enchanted weapons to be handed out in the event of an attack, though those were expensive and had to be recharged periodically if the spellwork wasn’t of a high enough caliber. Hells, even in Ghorazon, they had their enigmatic village witches to rely on, and there was no limit to how many witches or mages there could be beyond nature itself.

  Rassans had only their faith and themselves until a member of the Thirty-Six could be called to the area they’re needed. Who knew what damage a monster from the Rift could wreak before the Brotherhood arrived? Without magic, they were helpless to do anything beyond destroy the body, if they could, releasing a Wraith to possess some other poor creature or even one of their own, starting the cycle all over again. And even when the Brotherhood arrived, the village or town had to pay a heavy price for their aid. He’d never been able to understand how the Brotherhood maintained its power, its monopoly on magic, when there were so many other options in the world—easier, more efficient ways of protecting the people.

  “I’d know right away if there was a Spawn within a mile of us. You don’t have to worry about that. They practically scream to be noticed.”

  “And Wraiths? Or… maybe ancient magical objects, like before the coming of Blessed Harot? Would you be able to feel that?”

  Ravi’s tone had taken on an odd, exc
ited note that made the hairs on the back of Daks’s neck stand up. Unwilling to admit just how much the eeriness of their surroundings was getting to him, Daks opened his senses for one more sweep, just to be sure, but all was the same as it had been.

  “I haven’t had much experience with Wraiths,” Daks admitted reluctantly. “In Samebar, when a mage kills a Spawn, its Wraith is captured in a crystal and taken back to Scholoveld for destruction, if it isn’t destroyed in the killing. But from everything I’ve been taught, Wraiths can’t wait long before they find a new host. I doubt there would be any just hovering about in the bogs like ghosts.”

  As soon as he said the word, he wanted to take it back. Ravi finally swung around to look at him, his amber eyes wide as his hood fell back enough to expose a touch of that damnable auburn hair.

  “Can you sense ghosts?”

  Daks grimaced and wanted to smack himself on the forehead. He dragged his gaze away from Ravi and eyed their dreary surroundings once more, reminding himself he wasn’t a superstitious man.

  “If they exist, I’ve never sensed them. Why all the spooky questions all of a sudden?” he asked, deflecting.

  Ravi immediately stiffened, and Daks was filled with equal parts regret and anticipation as he waited for Ravi to snap something cutting back at him. But before he could, a familiar tingle shivered along Daks’s skin and he lurched forward, wrapping an arm across Ravi’s chest as the man let out a strangled moan and arched his back. Magic flowed over and through Daks as Horse snorted and jerked beneath.

  “Push it back, Ravi. Don’t let it take over,” Daks urged as he tightened his grip on the reins and his hold on Ravi.

  Ravi’s muscles strained against him only for a few moments before he went limp. Lucky for both of them, most of Ravi’s weight was supported by the saddle, and Horse wasn’t particularly skittish. Daks managed to settle him and keep them both from falling.

  “Daks?” Shura called.

  He glanced up to find her twisted in her saddle, looking back at him with concern.

  “We’re all right.”

  “Another Vision?”

  A glance at Fara showed her biting her lip and staring wide-eyed, and Daks grimaced.

  “It wasn’t a big one, and there aren’t any members of the Thirty-Six around, so we should be okay,” he replied grimly. “This is why we took the long way around.”

  Shura remained quiet for a few beats before she asked, “Do we need to stop?”

  “No. I’ve got him. Keep going.”

  She pursed her lips but nodded and nudged her horse back into a walk as Daks settled Ravi’s unconscious form a little more comfortably against his chest. In another day and half, they would be at Traget, so if Ravi was going to have a Vision, now was the best time to do it, when they were halfway between large settlements. Daks just hoped it was the last until he could get him across the river.

  “Drink this,” Daks said, handing over the waterskin when Ravi finally stirred.

  Ravi sat up straighter in the saddle and sadly pulled out of Daks’s embrace. He didn’t meet Daks’s gaze as he took the skin and downed a large gulp from it before handing it back.

  “Thanks,” he murmured.

  He sat hunched in silence in front of Daks for a while as the horses plodded across the marshy ground, and Daks decided not to push. If the Vision was important, Ravi would have said so.

  “How long was I out?” Ravi asked morosely.

  “Not long. A few minutes at most.”

  He heaved a long sigh, and Daks cringed for him. He knew a little of what it was like to have this thing inside you that you didn’t want, that made you different, forcing life choices on you you’d otherwise not have made. His situation hadn’t been exactly the same. He didn’t have to fear for his life when his gift manifested, but it turned his world upside down anyway, and with not much in the way of compensation.

  If he thought Ravi would welcome it, he’d wrap an arm around him again to show him he wasn’t alone. But he doubted the gesture would be appreciated. Ravi would probably be glad to see the back of him as soon as they reached Scholoveld, if not sooner… and sentimentality was a trap at any rate.

  “It was the same Vision… or lack of Vision, I had before,” Ravi huffed out finally, though Daks hadn’t asked.

  “The gray wall?”

  “Yes. I don’t know what’s happened, but I never thought this curse could actually get worse. Still, having the damned Visions but not being able to see anything is definitely worse, so much worse.”

  “Things can always get worse.”

  Ravi swung around and met his gaze with a scowl. “Not helping.”

  Daks’s lips quirked as he shrugged. “They’ll get you sorted at the Scholomagi. They’ll help you figure it out.”

  “You’re sure about that?”

  “Of course.”

  Ravi’s lips twisted skeptically as he narrowed his eyes, and Daks had to fight a smile. The truth was, he had no idea what was wrong with Ravi’s Visions, and he also had no idea if the crackpots in the Seer’s tower could help him. But what was the use in wallowing in fear and indecision if they were going to the Scholomagi anyway? Besides, poking at Ravi was too entertaining to resist, and he needed something to distract both of them from their woes.

  “You’ll see when we get there,” Daks continued with the airy bravado he knew would irritate Ravi the most, and Ravi harrumphed and faced forward again, allowing Daks to indulge in the smile he’d been fighting without getting punched or ordered to get off the horse and walk. The only downside was, he seemed to have killed what little conversation Ravi was willing to share, leaving him with nothing to do but stare out into the gloom again.

  After they stopped for lunch, everyone seemed to perk up a little, which helped keep Daks from going completely insane. Shura and Fara did most of the talking, since Ravi seemed mired in his own thoughts, but Daks was content to listen. Shura seemed positively chatty, which was a little unsettling. He’d give her no end of grief about it when their little adventure was over, but definitely not now. She might stop.

  The sun finally burned through most of the mist by late afternoon, warming the air a bit, and their ride might have been almost pleasant if not for the pervasive smell of rotting vegetation and squelch of mud beneath the horses’ hooves. At least they were making better time, despite Shura having to dismount periodically to scout ahead when the trail became too obscured, or sometimes even submerged, the deeper they went into the bogs.

  Though he felt ridiculous, each time they stopped, he found himself reaching out with his gift, still a little spooked. Every once in a while, he thought he caught the hint of something—something old and buried deep, something sleeping, like the vibrations of the ring of stones they’d camped in near Reyan—but he couldn’t be sure. He needed to stop or he’d have one hell of a headache by nightfall. Nothing was close enough or active enough to threaten their progress. That’s all that mattered. Trying to pry ages-old secrets out of a swamp was a waste of his time and energy. He couldn’t sense ghosts because there was no such thing as ghosts, and they’d be headed out of this accursed swamp tomorrow.

  Never again.

  By the time they found a dry space to camp that night, the itch between Daks’s shoulder blades, like someone was watching him or had an arrow trained on him, was driving him crazy. He dismounted before Horse had even come to a stop and didn’t hang around to make sure Ravi got down safely.

  “I’m going for firewood if I can find anything dry in this Rift-blighted place,” he called over his shoulder, because no way was he sitting around in the dark tonight.

  He was sweating well before he’d finished collecting a sizable pile of wood, and Shura cocked an eyebrow at him each time he returned with another armload, but she didn’t comment. Thankfully they’d climbed enough of a rise that a copse of pines had been able to survive the wet. They’d have plenty of bright, cheerful flames from a crackling, popping fire that would drown out any eerie
swamp noises.

  Possibly sensing his surly mood, the others puttered with the horses and the gear, while giving him a wide berth. That was fine. He needed the reminder that this was a job, a job that would come to an end as soon as they reached the Scholomagi… and then he’d have to figure out what came next. From the way Shura had been fluttering her eyelashes at Fara, maybe he’d have to remind her of that soon too. A few nights sharing blankets was one thing, but they would both be walking away eventually.

  Once he got the fire lit, Shura fed the horses their ration of grain for the day while Fara prepared stew, and then everyone settled around the fire to eat in companionable silence. Daks tried to relax. He sipped at a bottle of ale as he stretched his boots toward the flames, but that spot between his shoulder blades continued to itch. Ravi staring pensively out into the shadows beyond the campfire, as if searching for something, didn’t help. For the life of him, Daks couldn’t see anything but darkness peppered with starlight when he followed the man’s gaze.

  Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore and he growled, “Are you having one of your feelings?”

  Ravi frowned at him. “No. Why?”

  Now everyone was looking at him oddly, and Daks felt like an ass for bringing it up. “No reason,” he mumbled. “Just checking.”

  “Is everything all right?” Shura asked, eyeing him.

  “It’s fine.” He took another swig from his bottle.

  “Then, do you think we might risk a little music tonight?” Fara asked wistfully. “Last night was so dreary, I wouldn’t mind some cheering up.”

  “I don’t see why not,” Daks replied a little too quickly. “Anyone close enough to hear would be able to see or smell our fire anyway.”

  Shura cocked an eyebrow at him, and Daks cleared his throat. “I mean, if you want to, that is.”

  “Oh good,” Fara replied as she stood and went to the packs.

  When she returned to the fire, she unrolled a small wooden flute from a square of wool and put it to her lips. After a few practice notes, the soft, breathy strains of an unfamiliar tune rose into the night, as if carried by the swirls of smoke and sparks from the fire, and Daks let out a long sigh and slumped back against the pack he’d propped behind him. Fara played well. It was probably some Harotian hymn, but the music was soft, sweet, and just a little achingly poignant, so he could hardly complain.