Angus Wells - The God Wars 01 (3 page)

 
          
"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 haa 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 it 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 dependmg on his, or her, ability—but that none can
foresee it all, simply because it is too large, the branching growing too
intricate 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 Wes- syl; 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 held 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.