Narine ignored the comment. “Afterward, I slept better than I have in a long time. Even this morning, I had thought we might have some more fun…until you showed up.”
“I knocked on the door a half-dozen times last night, and you ignored me repeatedly. If you had done so this morning, I would have kicked the door down.”
Narine laughed. “That’s why I agreed to let you in. That and the fact we needed food.”
“Fine.” Adyn turned toward the door. “I’ll find a porter so you can bathe. You should get cleaned up anyway. We are to eat lunch with the rest of the group to discuss how we can assist with the funeral plans.”
Narine experienced a wave of guilt. While she and Jace had been selfishly enjoying each other’s company, Ariella had been dealing with the death of her husband.
It was time for Narine to set her own desires aside.
2
Haunted
The wind blew fiercely across the water, forcing Brogan Reisner to squint against it, his cape swirling as if alive. It was not just any wind, but a cold wind coming from the distant ice fields to the southeast, the chill a foretelling of the winter to come. The next storm will coat the mountains white. For now, they were dark green, save for the tallest peaks.
For the first time in two decades, he wore Gleam Guard armor, the polished metal plates on his chest and shoulders shining, despite the cloud-covered autumn sky. The armor did not mark his return to the Guard. Rather, it was a means to honor a man he respected. More so, Brogan had agreed to wear it to appease the man’s widow.
At first, Brogan had bristled when Queen Ariella requested he wear it, the woman insisting Lord Raskor had always considered him a son, in spite of Brogan’s failures.
After all these years, your father joins you and your brothers, Rictor. Sadness welled up inside him, tears threatening, emotion railing against his stoic exterior. He refused to bend to it. Of all my regrets, of which there are many, failing you remains the low point of my existence. I miss you every day. Rictor had always treated Brogan like a sibling rather than a bodyguard. You would have made a fine wizard lord.
Prince Rictor’s death had precipitated a series of tragedies for Raskor and his wife. Of the nine children Ariella had birthed, only one still lived. That child was now a full-grown woman, still studying at the University in Tiadd. Brogan wondered what type of woman Priella had become. When he had last seen her, she was a fiery-haired toddler. I will discover soon, for she will arrive in Illustan in two weeks. The morning after Raskor’s death, a ship had departed for Tiadd to retrieve the princess. Whether she had mastered her skills and passed the Trial no longer mattered. With Raskor dead and Ariella alone, it was time for Priella to return home.
A hand touched his, clasping it, drawing him from his reverie, although the shadow of melancholy remained. He glanced toward Blythe, her green-eyed gaze meeting his until he looked away. He hadn’t asked her to stand beside him, nor had he expected her to hold his hand. But he would not release it, not until forced to do so. With his will strengthened by her grip, his gaze shifted to the crowd along the shore.
Thousands occupied the quarter mile between the walls of Illustan and the water’s edge. A path ten strides across led from where Brogan stood at the city gates. To one side, armored guards dressed in chain mail waited in ranks, stern glares appearing ready for battle. To the other side were the citizens of Illustan, dressed in cloaks, wools, and furs, children huddled close to mothers for warmth. Most of the faces reflected little emotion, but here and there, eyes glistened with moisture. It was a time of sadness for the people who had loved their wizard lord.
Salvon and his companions huddled across from Brogan, all appearing solemn, even Jace. The thief stood beside Narine, his cloak about her shoulders as he held her close. Brogan didn’t trust the thief, and he wondered if Narine was too blinded by her emotions to be careful. Something had happened between the two since their arrival, something far beyond their shared experience with the dragon attack.
Brogan closed his eyes, wondering if there was anything he could have done to save Raskor from the dragon’s magic. “You cannot fight a dragon,” Salvon had warned. “Not unless you are armed with a special weapon.” Brogan wondered if the magic in Augur would have been of any use. To test it and fail was an undesirable means to learning the truth.
Horns blew, drawing everyone’s attention toward the city gates. A procession emerged, led by High Priest Moargan and the recently widowed Queen of Pallanar. Behind them marched a Gleam Guard squadron, their silver armor polished as a reflection of their pride. The eight soldiers in the lead carried a boat on their shoulders, the vessel loaded with a bed of kindling, and upon it lay the corpse of Lord Raskor. The funeral procession advanced at a slow but steady pace, the somber crowd looking on. All was silent save for the whistling wind, clanking of armor, and crunch of boots on gravel as the soldiers carried their ruler toward his final destination.
As the queen drew close, Brogan observed her red eyes, dry after three days of shedding tears for the man she loved. Here, in public, she would show no such emotion. It was not the Pallanese way. Instead, her face remained stoic, her expression unreadable.
The queen and high priest stopped near the shoreline, just steps away from Brogan. The Gleam Guard settled behind her, forming straight ranks, while those carrying the funeral boat continued forward, down the bank and into the water, stopping when they stood waist-deep. As one, the eight soldiers lowered the boat until it floated between them. There they stood, waiting.
High Priest Moargan lifted his staff, the ice-blue flame at the head of it drawing Brogan’s gaze. “We gather here today to honor our fallen leader, a man who gave his life in defense of our fair city. As his father did before him, Lord Raskor ruled Pallanar with honor and integrity. Today, Raskor returns to Pallan’s embrace. May he one day be born again.”
When the butt of the staff thumped against the ground, the soldiers gave the boat a gentle push. It drifted out into the water, a fan of ripples in its wake. Brogan turned toward Blythe. His eyes met hers, the emerald pools instilling him with confidence. Her curly, red hair was tied in a tail, the wind stirring it and the wool cloak over her shoulders. As always, she wore a form-fitting jerkin and tight breeches, revealing a lean, fit build. She handed him her bow and an arrow, the head wrapped in a naphtha-doused rag.
“You can make this shot,” she whispered.
He nodded before approaching Moargan and holding the arrow to the flaming staff. It blazed to life, and Brogan lifted the bow, one eye closing as he took aim toward the small vessel. May Pallan bless you, my lord. He drew the bowstring back, lifted it to account for the arc, as Blythe had taught him, and loosed. The flaming arrow sailed through the air, continued beyond the funeral craft, and dropped into the water with a plop.
Oh, by Pallan, no. Brogan’s throat tightened with shame. I have failed him again.
Someone laughed, stirring Brogan’s anger. He turned and noticed Jace covering his mouth, the thief’s shoulders hunched as he tried to stifle his laughter. Grimacing, Brogan stomped back to Blythe, handing her the bow.
“Do it,” he growled. He could not meet her gaze.
She turned to the porter behind her, grabbed another arrow, and walked up to the priest. Brogan stared toward the water, refusing to look at the queen or anyone else. Blythe lit the arrow, took a stance, drew her bowstring, and released. The flaming arrow arced up and fell toward the water, landing in the heart of the boat. The kindling began to burn, black smoke rising from it as the flames grew.
Brogan released a sigh, thankful that the funeral craft had been set ablaze. The sting of embarrassment remained, but at least Pallan would receive Raskor. Legend said a craft crossing the water before it burned and sank would bring a decade of bad luck. Far worse, it would leave the dead to haunt the world for eternity.
When the boat was a mile out, halfway across the water, it slowed and sank from view, the trail of smoke ceasing and flitting
away with the wind.
A female voice broke the silence. “Farewell, Lord Raskor.”
Brogan turned to find a woman standing in the open area between the two crowds. With raven-black hair and wearing a white dress, she stood just over five feet tall. She was young, perhaps younger than Rhoa. Most noticeably, she wore a black blindfold across her eyes.
Beside the girl, standing inches shorter than her but stoutly built with long, black hair and a black, braided beard, was her bodyguard. A dwarf, Brogan realized. While the girl wore no visible weapons, a gruesome battle axe was strapped to the dwarf’s back and odd, star-shaped daggers adorned the leather strap across his torso.
The blindfold. The white dress. The dwarf guardian. It suddenly clicked.
She is a witch.
The Seers of Kelmar were legendary, mystical women, both feared and respected in Pallanar. Sighting a witch was exceptionally rare, yet common enough for tales of those events to persist for decades. There were stories of seers visiting Pallanese citizens just prior to key events throughout history, warning of impending change and, oftentimes, the dark future that waited should the warnings be ignored. In each and every tale, the prognostications had been taken seriously. Brogan wondered how history might have played out if people had done otherwise.
Ariella stepped toward the seer with fists clenched at her sides. “Why do you desecrate our solemn ceremony? Cannot you see? I have lost my husband, and these people have lost their lord.”
The young witch walked toward Ariella, the dwarf shadowing her.
“You are wrong, Queen of the Pallans. I interrupt nothing. The ceremony has concluded, the time for mourning ended. I have been sent to intervene, for the auguries have spoken. The moment the Seers were chartered to prevent is fast approaching, but it leaves us blind. The future is uncertain, the end drawing near. You must listen, for the fate of the world hangs in the balance.”
3
Seer
Rawkobon Kragmor sat quietly, as usual. He preferred to remain unnoticed. Always had. The tinted spectacles he had received from Salvon remained a boon, allowing his eyes to adjust to the bright light of the surface world. Secretly, Rawk also found security behind the dark glass, his eyes hidden from those he faced, like a shield to guard his thoughts.
The room was occupied by three others, yet draped in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. He glanced at his uncle, Algoron, who sat beside him, the dwarf sharing more in common with Rawk than anyone else.
Their appearance was where they differed most greatly. Whereas Rawk’s entire body was completely hairless, his uncle possessed long, red hair and a thick beard, braided to his chest.
But for dwarfs, a race renowned for their loud and boisterous personalities, the two were particularly reserved. In addition, they were both stone-shapers, the most talented among their people. However, those traits were immaterial in the shadow of their shame – their inability to avoid the alluring desire for exotic gems.
Salvon slowly paced the room, the old storyteller stroking his gray beard in thought, his footsteps and the swishing of his patchwork cloak the only noise in the room. Meanwhile, Rhoa stared out the window toward the gloomy autumn skies. Even with noon approaching, it had already been a day of quiet introspection, a day of mourning, a day of startling revelations.
Shock had captured Rawk’s thoughts and held them hostage for the past hour, ever since the seer first appeared outside the city. It wasn’t the seer who had twisted his perspective and left him disjointed, but rather the warrior who had escorted her.
A Maker with a black beard and black hair, Rawk thought. Where did he come from? Are there others? Does he even know of Ghen Aeldor?
Many questions filled his head, clouded by a sense of wonder. His people back home believed they were the last of their kind. Clearly, the mysterious dwarf’s presence proved otherwise.
Brogan entered the room, the man having shed the polished Gleam Guard armor in favor of a leather vest over his tunic. As expected, the man’s sword was strapped to his hip, dangling from the baldric he wore over one shoulder. Since reclaiming Augur, Rawk had rarely seen Brogan without it.
“The queen requests our presence.” Brogan’s face turned to a worried frown. “Actually, Xionne requested we join them.”
“Xionne?” Algoron asked.
“The seer.” Brogan looked at Salvon. “She seems to know you and demanded that you and your companions join the discussion before she reveals anything more.”
Salvon nodded. “I suspected Xionne was aware of my presence. The seers are mystics and possess abilities unlike anyone else. She may wear a blindfold, but she is anything but blind.” He headed out the door. “Come along. Let’s gather the others. We mustn’t keep Ariella and Xionne waiting.”
Rawk glanced toward Rhoa, her large, dark eyes meeting his. With wavy black hair reaching her shoulders and a coppery complexion, Rhoa was among the prettiest females he had ever seen. More importantly, she was his friend, the first person who had shown him companionship and respect, something he never knew from his own people. While Rhoa’s honor and bravery inspired him, her understanding and compassion drew him toward her like the gemsongs he could not resist.
After a moment, Rhoa shrugged and followed Brogan and Salvon out the door. Moving with haste, Rawk and Algoron hurried into the corridor as Salvon approached the door to Narine’s room. His knock echoed in the hallway, followed by the sound of footsteps from inside. The door opened to reveal Adyn, Narine’s tall bodyguard.
“Yes?”
Salvon said, “It appears the seer would have words with all of us, including Narine and Jace.”
Adyn turned toward the room. “You heard the man, lovebirds. Let’s go.”
Moments later, the three of them emerged, and Brogan led them to the stairs. When they arrived at the uppermost floor, four armed guards, along with Blythe, waited in the corridor.
Brogan approached the guards. “I have gathered our guests, as the queen requested.”
A guard opened the door and stepped aside. Brogan and Blythe entered, leading them into the same room where they had first met Lord Raskor less than a week prior.
Ariella paced the room, her hands clasped at her waist. The seer and her guardian sat on a sofa, the dwarf noticeably lacking his weapons. His dark eyes met Rawk’s, his heavy brow furrowing, yet he said nothing.
“As you requested,” Ariella said, facing the seer, “Salvon and his companions are here. Can we now get to the bottom of this? I have not slept well in days, and my patience has run thin.”
The seer stood and faced Salvon. “Do you recall me, Weaver?”
The old man nodded. “I do, Xionne, although you were still a girl when I left Paehl Lanor.”
Rawk blinked at the name. Paehl Lanor meant Lonely Peak in the old language, which he hadn’t heard since his exile from Ghen Aeldor.
“The seasons turn, Weaver, even when you neglect to note their passing.”
Salvon chuckled. “So they do. What of Rhionna? Since you wear the blindfold, I assume she has passed on?”
The girl nodded. “Yes. My predecessor joined Vandasal in the Hall of Spirits two years past. Gifted with the sight, I assumed her role and the burden it carries.”
The old man turned toward the dwarf, who was still seated. “Greetings, Captain. While the Seers and the citizens of Kelmar often call me Weaver, among Men, I am known as Salvon the Great.”
The dwarf stood and gave Salvon a shallow bow. “It is good to see you are well, Weaver.” He turned toward the room and said, “My name is Hadnoddon Chogmar, Captain in the Guardians of Kelmar. My–”
The queen interrupted with the wave of a hand. “Introductions can wait,” Ariella said impatiently. “Please, Xionne. Why have you come to Illustan?”
The young woman crossed the floor, avoiding furniture, despite her blindfold. She stopped a step before Rhoa, the pair of them similar in height. The seer reached out, appearing to search blindly until she gripped Rhoa
’s shoulder.
Xionne gasped. “It is incredible, yet so odd to find someone standing where I sense naught but a vacuum, as if less than nothing occupies the space.”
Rhoa’s brow furrowed. “Less than nothing?”
Rather than reply, Xionne turned and approached Jace, her hand held in front of her until it struck his chest. She shook her head. “It is wondrous. Two of you, as the augury predicted.”
Jace frowned. “What is this about? Why Rhoa? Why me?” His eyes widened. “You know about the amulet.”
Xionne nodded. “The eye that blinds. You possess it.”
“I… I do.”
She nodded. “You are the Charlatan of Ages.” The seer then spun to face Rhoa. “That means you are She Who is Blind by Birth.”
Rhoa looked at Salvon, waiting for his nod before she said, “Yes.”
“One mystery solved, but many remain to unravel.” Xionne shifted to stand before Narine. “You are the wizardess…She Who Bends Magic Until It Breaks, also known as The Hound’s Final Seed.” Ignoring Narine’s startled reaction, she moved on to Adyn. “You are The Indentured Protector.” To Brogan, she said. “The Jaded Warrior.” To Blythe, “The Scarlet Archer.” Turning, she crossed the room to stand before Rawk and Algoron. “My Maker friends, both of you stone-shapers.” Her tone became sorrowful. “One of you will die to save the world, the other will unleash his magic to destroy it.”
Rawk jerked backward as if struck, his heart racing. His uncle’s brow furrowed, the dwarf’s eyes reflecting concern as he glared at the seer. Has this woman laid a curse upon me? Rawk wondered.
His entire life, Rawk had felt as if he didn’t belong. He was a hairless freak among his people, shunned long before he was cast out of Ghen Aeldor. Through stone-shaping alone, he had hoped to find importance. With his exile, that hope had been lost. Ever since, he had wondered about the future before him, living each day as it came without any clue of what lay ahead. Now, he feared his future as Xionne’s words replayed in his head.
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