moving gracefully as a fish in water. Scars crisscrossed his red-stained hands; yellowed robes bore the crimson reminders of his seniority among the Choir.
“She has help now. Guides,” the Favored One said as they walked in the wake of the dreaming pack. “These men, shadows of our old selves, use her toward their own ends. The girl must be rescued from their hubris.”
“Yet they lead her home, to where the Lady calls her,” Sefir replied. “Is this not proper?” “No!”
The voice lanced through Sefir’s body like a bolt of lightning, forcing him to his knees as the pain of pure anger coursed through his flesh. He gasped, catching his breath, and was suddenly ashamed of his foolishness, his presumption of the Lady’s desire. A strong hand, cold and crusted with old blood, fell gently upon his shoulder.
“Do not make the mistake of confusing coincidence with destiny,” the powerful voice said, flooding his thoughts with calm and wisdom. Sefir rose slowly, the pain subsiding and settling in those places where his body seemed ready to burst and bloom with bestowed power. He bowed his head to the Favored One, who continued, “You are young yet among our number, chosen for the sword you wear at your side.”
Sefir’s hand rested on the old blade, nicked and stained from battles he could no longer remember, the memories of some other life already washed away by the power of the Lady’s song.
“You are to be the Lady’s warrior, a blade in her hand… A song of war.” The words filled Sefir with pride as he lifted his head to the half-hidden face of his mentor. “I bid you go and sing. Bring steel and song to those who would judge us.”
Sefir turned, his back arching as he stretched, bones
popping slightly, reconfiguring to support the squirming new muscles beneath his skin. He bent forward, sniffing at the air, tasting it on his tongue, and training his ears to the howls of the dreamers. A brief pain distracted him, bringing with it a dim sense of doubt, some forgotten thought rising to the surface of his mind like a corpse thrown in a river.
“She… The genasi,” he stammered, trying to make sense of the sudden emotion, though it was small in comparison to his desire to return home, to Tohrepur. “She will become the Prophet?”
“No,” the Favored One said, turning south. “She is the Prophet. Her sister will awaken her.”
“And the men?” Sefir asked, tapping the cool metal of the blade at his side.
“Seek them upon the edge of the lowlands, what they call the Wash,” came the reply, a current of anger thundering through his mentor’s voice. “Should they escape… Well, I shall have words with Uthalion myself.”
The name meant nothing to Sefir. Most names, save for the one he’d been given at Tohrepur, seemed unimportant devices, divisive markers of loneliness. His urge to ask yet more questions surprised him, but the feeling did not last long.
The song came whispering across the Akana. Trembling at the sound, at the wordless promises of the power growing within him, his vision blurred, and he winced in pain at the moonlight. The brightness burned his eyes, the light screaming at his senses.
Averting his gaze, he turned to the Favored One, to the tight bandages wrapped over his mentor’s face, obscuring the deep gouges and bloody furrows where sight had once been seated. Sefir placed his hands over his own eyes, feeling the toughness of his skin, lightly scraping a fingernail across his brow.
“There is a place at a rise among the lowlands,” the Favored One said. “A small village… called Caidris. Find me there.”
Leaving Sefir alone, he strode into the dark, barefoot and blind, but seeing far greater than most beasts of the Akana. Sefir watched after him for long moments, until the howls of the dreamers stirred his blood and drew him into their hunt.
“Yes,” he replied to his mentor’s back, “Lord Khault.”
He loped into the descending land, following the
“She has help now. Guides,” the Favored One said as they walked in the wake of the dreaming pack. “These men, shadows of our old selves, use her toward their own ends. The girl must be rescued from their hubris.”
“Yet they lead her home, to where the Lady calls her,” Sefir replied. “Is this not proper?” “No!”
The voice lanced through Sefir’s body like a bolt of lightning, forcing him to his knees as the pain of pure anger coursed through his flesh. He gasped, catching his breath, and was suddenly ashamed of his foolishness, his presumption of the Lady’s desire. A strong hand, cold and crusted with old blood, fell gently upon his shoulder.
“Do not make the mistake of confusing coincidence with destiny,” the powerful voice said, flooding his thoughts with calm and wisdom. Sefir rose slowly, the pain subsiding and settling in those places where his body seemed ready to burst and bloom with bestowed power. He bowed his head to the Favored One, who continued, “You are young yet among our number, chosen for the sword you wear at your side.”
Sefir’s hand rested on the old blade, nicked and stained from battles he could no longer remember, the memories of some other life already washed away by the power of the Lady’s song.
“You are to be the Lady’s warrior, a blade in her hand… A song of war.” The words filled Sefir with pride as he lifted his head to the half-hidden face of his mentor. “I bid you go and sing. Bring steel and song to those who would judge us.”
Sefir turned, his back arching as he stretched, bones
popping slightly, reconfiguring to support the squirming new muscles beneath his skin. He bent forward, sniffing at the air, tasting it on his tongue, and training his ears to the howls of the dreamers. A brief pain distracted him, bringing with it a dim sense of doubt, some forgotten thought rising to the surface of his mind like a corpse thrown in a river.
“She… The genasi,” he stammered, trying to make sense of the sudden emotion, though it was small in comparison to his desire to return home, to Tohrepur. “She will become the Prophet?”
“No,” the Favored One said, turning south. “She is the Prophet. Her sister will awaken her.”
“And the men?” Sefir asked, tapping the cool metal of the blade at his side.
“Seek them upon the edge of the lowlands, what they call the Wash,” came the reply, a current of anger thundering through his mentor’s voice. “Should they escape… Well, I shall have words with Uthalion myself.”
The name meant nothing to Sefir. Most names, save for the one he’d been given at Tohrepur, seemed unimportant devices, divisive markers of loneliness. His urge to ask yet more questions surprised him, but the feeling did not last long.
The song came whispering across the Akana. Trembling at the sound, at the wordless promises of the power growing within him, his vision blurred, and he winced in pain at the moonlight. The brightness burned his eyes, the light screaming at his senses.
Averting his gaze, he turned to the Favored One, to the tight bandages wrapped over his mentor’s face, obscuring the deep gouges and bloody furrows where sight had once been seated. Sefir placed his hands over his own eyes, feeling the toughness of his skin, lightly scraping a fingernail across his brow.
“There is a place at a rise among the lowlands,” the Favored One said. “A small village… called Caidris. Find me there.”
Leaving Sefir alone, he strode into the dark, barefoot and blind, but seeing far greater than most beasts of the Akana. Sefir watched after him for long moments, until the howls of the dreamers stirred his blood and drew him into their hunt.
“Yes,” he replied to his mentor’s back, “Lord Khault.”
He loped into the descending land, following the
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