Laurell Hamilton - Nightseer

Keleios ignored the summons, praying to Urle, god of prophecy. She concentrated on the prayer, each word important, each syllable a shield against the madness. “Urle, god of good dreams, god of favored prophecy, aid me, your child. A prophet cries to you for help. A prophet cries to you in great need. Hear me, Urle, god of the forge, hear me, and do not leave me desolate. Help your prophet child.” Keleios recited the ancient prayer over and over until the hissing sighs became quiet screams.

“Hear us, prophet. You must obey. Look up at us and see true power. We who have gone before you command you to look up; look upon us.”

Keleios stumbled over the words; her tongue seemed to forget how to form them. It was an effort to remember, an effort to cover her eyes, an effort not to look up.

Keleios knew what it was: a phantasm, an eater of souls. They preyed upon dream prophets and were minions of the Grey Lady herself, goddess of evil dreams and treachery. They were attracted to dark prophecy like vultures to the newly dead.

The prayer to Urle had died on her lips. She could not think of it anymore. There was something that kept phantasms out of the tower. She knew what it was. She knew, but she could not think.

The sighing voices whispered, “Prophet, prophet, look upon us. You cannot escape this place, and you cannot survive in this place. Look up and end your suffering.”

Keleios found herself rising to her knees, eyes still pressed shut. She spoke to it, “No, no.” She sat back down, hiding her eyes against her knees. It was said that one glance at a phantasm and sanity was snuffed like a candle, one’s soul ripped away. So alien were they that only a glance was needed. Keleios fought not to give that glance.

How were the phantasms kept from the tower? She had known the answer only minutes before, but she could not think. Sorcery, something of sorcery, yes. A symbol of sorcery.

“Prophet, hear us. You cannot escape. You are ours. Do not torment yourself. Give up and you shall be free of all cares.”

Sorcery, a symbol, a symbol ...of law. Phantasms are kept out by a symbol of law. Every apprentice dreamer knew that. The symbol of law was replaced every day, but someone

had taken the symbol. Someone had opened the tower to the phantasm, and she was helpless.

“No.” There had to be a way.

“Little prophet, aren’t you tired yet? Don’t you weary of this game?”

She screamed at it, voice breaking, “Shut up!”

“In dream you have power, but we are not a dream to be shaped and controlled. We are not prophecy to vanish when complete. We are your destiny. You are to join with us. You shall be power with us.”

Power, that was it, power. She was a sorcerer now, and sorcery made the symbol of law. She didn’t know how to wield the symbols of making yet. The symbols were high sorcery, beyond a journeyman, beyond Keleios, unless ... unless it was like any other sorcery: Once she formed an image in her mind, knew its name, and was unafraid of it, then the power was hers. To hesitate was to be worse than dead. If she called it and couldn’t control it, then she would die cleanly and cheat the soul-eater.

Without thinking more, she called it. She stood, eyes closed, hands out in front of her, the whispers gone distant, that neck-ruffling flash of power that was sorcery sweeping through her, but stronger until she could not breathe, waiting for power to level off, waiting for it to be controlled. The magic swelled until Keleios thought that her skin would burst with light and power.

The phantasm shrieked, “What is that, what is that? Dirty thing, filthy thing, take it away! Take it away!”

The radiance beat against her closed eyelids, forming red shadows. Her entire body tingled with the nearness of so powerful a sorcery. She drew a shaky breath and opened her eyes carefully, a slit at a time. The symbol hung just in front of her eyes, beautiful in its straight lines, its simplicity. She could see nothing else but the shining of it.

The phantasm called just beyond its glowing circle. “Prophet, prophet, hear me. Cast that thing aside. Join with us. Free yourself of that frail shell and become as one with us.”

Keleios stared at the symbol of law, reading its power and understanding some of it, and she understood something that her teachers had not told her. They had said that no journeyman had the strength to call a symbol, but that was a lie. Any sorcerer could call them, but very few could deal with them. She had called the symbol to herself, but its power overwhelmed her. She was but an empty shell before it, waiting for its command. So quickly and so completely was she possessed that Keleios did not even have time to be afraid.

Keleios heard herself speak, but it was not her choice. “Here me, Methostos, third of three. By true name, by sorcery, word, will, and gesture, I cast you out, I close this tower to you.”

The thing shrieked. Against the blaze of the magic she was blind; the symbol flared yet brighter, feeding off the phantasm’s pain.

As the phantasm vanished in distant screams, the symbol of law left also, burning after images in her eyes. Keleios was blessed that the symbol of law was not a greedy rune. There were other symbols that would have kept what they had touched.

Keleios woke instantly, staring up into the darkness, gasping for air. A scream, half-formed, died as she recognized her surroundings.

“Safe,” she whispered, “safe, only a dream.” Even as she said it, she knew better. The last had been very real. There was still something wrong. Her magic sense pulsed with the nearness of magic, and not her own. The tower room was bare of human magic. The thought came to her: if it wasn’t in the room, there was one more place it could be.

Keleios pressed fingers to her chest and searched herself. A touch of magic was there, someone else’s magic. There had been a spell tied to the phantasm like a tail on a kite.

Fear slid down her spine like ice. Keleios had not known such a spell was possible. How could she protect herself against something she did not understand? Keleios forced herself to breathe past the fear.

“I am alive and sane. I conquered the phantasm. I am all right,” Keleios whispered. She was not all right, and she knew it. The spell was dormant, but it was still there, and Keleios could not tell exactly what spell it was. She swallowed hard, and refused to be afraid. Fear would not help her now.

So there was a spell inside of her coiled like a snake, but she was alive and sane. She had her dream. Unlike most dreams this one would remain vivid, each retelling bringing the terror fresh and horrible. She had to tell someone. Already, the compulsion to share her prophecy was upon her. It would only grow worse.

She sat up in the narrow bed. The night breeze from the open window played coolly on her sweat-soaked body. The covers were drenched as if she had had fever in the night.

She swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Her feet dangled helplessly above the floor. There were good points and bad points to being half-elven. In most households she would have had no problem, but the Astranthians were a tall race.

Her clothes were wrinkled from the hours of sleep. Most dreamers wore gowns or bed shirts, but Keleios felt unprepared in nightclothes.

Most dream prophets strode the hallways, spouting prophecy to all who were near.

Keleios appeared in rumpled men’s clothing, quiet, waiting to tell only a select few. She was unimpressed with hysterical dreamers. Visionaries could sometimes be excused; the immediacy of vision was often too much even for the trained prophet. Visions did not stay with the prophet the way dreams did, but evaporated into wisps of sun-ruined fog. There was no excuse for lack of control in dreams.