Laurell Hamilton - Nightseer

She clenched her fists and spoke carefully. “Are you here merely to torment or is there a purpose to it?”

“I have had but one purpose since I arrived.” He moved beside her smoothly, with a fencer’s grace. His silver eyes met hers, and she would not look away. “Will you marry me?”

“I have told you many times that you must be patient.”

“I have been patient. I believe that you would answer no if I were not a prince and heir to a throne. It is not polite to refuse a prince hurriedly.” Anger showed on his face. His whiteness flushed slightly, eyes sparking.

“If you believe that is your answer, then go, leave me in peace.” She turned from him.

He called after her, “You will not be rid of me that easily, Keleios Nightseer.”

She stopped, trying to breathe through the power. It choked her, demanding to be freed. He would choose to use a demon-got name, reminding her that he had ties with them, too. She dared not move, only breathe in and out.

He stepped round her and brought her left hand upward. His angry eyes watched hers, saw the struggle in them. He turned it palm upward and kissed the leather glove softly. “My poor little enchanter, half-good and half-bad, how confusing.”

“Lothor, please.”

“We could end it now. Fight, and you would be rid of me.”

She stared at him, the magic pulsing close. “You would give me such a way out?”

“I, yes; my father who sent me, no.” He touched her shoulder, and an answering sorcery welled in his fingers. “I would spare us both an unhappy marriage if I were allowed to.” His hand fell to his side. “But I am not my master.”

“Everyone should be their own master at least part of the time, Lothor.” She walked around him, breathing carefully through the magic that threatened to spill over. Tiny bits of magic flitted through the hallway.

She stood in front of Master Poula’s door, but before she could speak, a voice called, “Come in, dear.”

Keleios pushed the door inward with magic and stepped into the dark room like a storm about to break.

The room was as dark as the tower had been. Rushes squeaked underfoot, each step pressing the strewing herbs to fragrance. The pine scent of rosemary, spearmint, peppermint, and some fruit mint, perhaps apple, filled the air. Mint and rosemary were old favorites of Master Poula’s. The smells calmed Keleios. No lights and the soothing spell upon the floor showed Poula had been prepared for a dream-heavy Keleios. She too was a prophet, if only of cards.

The master sat very still at a small round table. It was formed of ash and dark with polish. It was mildly enchanted to strengthen her card prophecies and her healing teas. She wore a loose belted robe that Keleios had seen before. It was deep forest green with white edging it round. Herbs were embroidered on the white border, but there was nothing of magic in it, not even for an herb-witch. It was just a pretty robe.

In the gloom Poula’s face bore terrible scars: one eye nearly shut with scar tissue, the other an empty blackness. Her long brown hair, turning grey, was unbound. The smooth blank mask that she usually wore lay beside her on the table. Keleios was privileged to be one of a handful who ever saw her unmasked.

She was blind, but through the enchanted necklace that she wore objects were outlined with color like auras. It was a singular joy to Poula that Keleios did not need lights. Even though it did not hide her scars from the half-elven, Poula was more comfortable in the dark.

Once, a much younger Keleios had asked how she came to have those scars. It was of endless debate among the apprentices and journeymen, of what she hid and why, and how. Poula looked past the child and seemed to be looking at other things, then said,

“Once I was young and foolish. I was challenged by a sorceress and I met her in the arena. I could have killed her. She lay at my feet and could not move but I worshipped Mother Blessen and gave mercy.” She turned her blind eyes to Keleios and said, “But she was evil, and because I left her alive, she did this to me.”

As far as Keleios knew, she was the only apprentice to be honored with the story, and she told no one. It was this story that had given Keleios the courage, or the fear, to kill in the arena. Two challenges, two deaths, both as a journeyman. No one had challenged her since she returned from her quest and became a master. There had been one challenge after she was stripped of her master’s rank, but official rank or not, she had been a master, and the sorcerer had died.

“Come in, child. I have a cup of tea ready for you.”

“Master Poula, I have come to prophesy.”

“I am aware of that. The tea will help you control your powers. Bits of magic, like colored fireflies, dance round you. Drink, then prophesy.”

Keleios held out her hand; the cup and saucer flew to her. The movement was too fast, and the amber-green liquid spilled over the rim. “Loth’s blood, can I do nothing right tonight?”

“Be eased, child; the tea will remove the last lingering touches of the spell that nearly killed you twice tonight.”

The cup was delicate white with sprigs of blue lavender painted on its side. Its curved

handle fit her fingers nicely, small. She took a deep breath of the tea’s steam. Peppermint, so strong that it made one think of summer and fresh-crushed leaves. The fruity fragrance of camomile, like faint summer apples. Keleios raised the gilt edge to her mouth and sipped the liquid. It was hot, but not scalding, and it carried magic. There was the faint sweetness of lavender flowers, the familiar fragrant valerian root, fennel, and milfoil. Keleios knew the spell well. Each draught hardened her calm; each drop chased back one of the flitting spells. When it was finished, she levitated it carefully back to the table and sat it next to the small round teapot.

“Do you feel better?”

“Much, thank you, master.”

She chuckled. “That’s what I’m here for.” She settled back in her chair and did not offer one to Keleios—she knew better. “Well, child, tell your dream.”

Keleios stood and stared at the darkened walls. Deep breaths for control, channel the power, and she touched the steel calm that held the dream back. The steel split, and the dream came free like a butterfly winter long imprisoned.

“And the dream ended.” She blinked, slumping and drawing in a deep shuddering breath. When she looked up, Poula still sat unmoved. “Master, what are we to do?”

“Come, child, sit and have a second cup of tea while we think.”

Keleios sat gratefully. If it were not for the spell in the tea, she would be good only for sleep now. She poured a second cup and asked, “Poula?”

“No, thank you, the spell is all for you.” The herb-witch sat very still and said, “You are prophet; this message was yours. What do you say about it?”

Keleios took a sip of tea and spoke carefully. “It is frightfully clear, Poula. The great blackness, whether a hole or a window, is my symbol for death. I am sure of one death: Feltan’s.”

“I sorrow with you, Keleios. Will you tell him?”

“How do you tell an eight-year-old boy that you have seen his death?”

“Then you won’t tell him?”

“I don’t know yet. I brought him here to the school so he could train. He had already attracted a familiar. You know how rare that is in an untrained herb-witch.”

Poula nodded. “He has great potential.”

“I brought him here, perhaps to his death.”

“You cannot think that way.”

Keleios stared at the tabletop. “But I do think that way.”

“I cannot offer you comfort, Keleios. I have seen death in the cards before. It is not an easy or simple thing to know what to do with the knowledge.”