Laurell Hamilton - Nightseer

She retrieved her boots from beside the bed and sat down to put them on. In another room was a five-year-old girl who dreamed. For such in age with such a talent there were excuses. Keleios frowned; there was something wrong. She should have been worried about Alys but couldn’t think why.

She padded over the cool stone floor to the water-filled basin. She spoke, “Thanks be to Urle, god of prophecy, that I have pierced the veils once and seen that which is to be, that which has been and that which is now.” She splashed the water on her face and arms. It fell in cool splendor down her chest. Keleios hesitated, feeling especially reluctant to finish

the ritual tonight. “Thanks be to the Shadow Lady, god of evil dreams, that I have pierced the veils once and seen that which is to be, that which has been, and that which is now.” She splashed more water upon herself and added as she turned away, “Even the shadows deserve their duty.”

It was an ancient phrase used without meaning or magic in the world. In the tower, magic is different. There was a quiet surge, as if the stones drew a breath. The air was suddenly cool. A pleasing dampness touched her skin as if of unseen fog. Her pulse pounded in her throat, and she couldn’t breathe the cool air.

Something was here, something beside the stinging shadow of prophecy and long-cast spells, something powerful.

A woman’s voice entered the silence, a deep rich alto, not unpleasant. “Thanks be to the prophet who worships the shadows still.”

Keleios tried to say, “I don’t,” but she could not speak.

Warmth began to creep into the room, and the unnatural dampness stole away. The spells of the tower resumed with a rush, a surge, that she could hear with the inner ear of magic. Keleios leaned against the table, suddenly weak. It was not easy to be brushed by the minion of a god. Even a dethroned god had her power.

Keleios drew in careful breaths of the dry, warm air. The smell of jasmine was still strong through the window. She stood away from the table, afraid. Keleios shook as if with fever, her breath coming in gasps. The Lady’s messenger had been preventing her from thinking, and it had not even been a spell, only will and power. Shadow messengers were not that uncommon in unprotected towers. Until the symbol of law was placed upon the tower, many things could come and go. She had to spread the alarm before more monsters came.

Alys had been in the tower with a phantasm loose. What chance did a five-year-old have? How many others had been in the tower when it came?

The dream struggled with her fear. It tried to force itself upon her. She had to waste time in calming herself, fighting for control of the dream. If she started prophesying now, she would be useless for a time. There was no time for weakness.

Keleios listened to her own breathing, concentrating on the simple flow of her own body. When she opened her eyes, she was no longer trembling. The dream was contained, for now.

She opened the outer door, but the dream struggled beneath the calm. It was a calm not of placid waters but of carved steel.

The outer chamber was dark; the dying embers of the fire glowed, popped, and flared.

The flash of light shone on Selene’s hair, crow-wing black, and Melandra’s upturned face. Selene was a journeyman herb-witch and card prophet. Neither girl stirred at her entrance. The prophet keepers had changed, perhaps many times tonight. Keleios stopped just in front of a ward sprinkled in a semi-circle before her door. It would not let her pass. The wards protected the prophet keepers from surprises from the dreaming rooms. It allowed them to get some sleep without having to set watches. Sometimes a prophet came out temporarily mad, without aid of a phantasm. Once they had only had sound wards but a journeyman dreamer killed one of the keepers and a ward of enclosure was added.

The prophecy spoke to her sorcery, her magic, and it whispered, “Cross the barrier. We are powerful, we will not be harmed.”

Keleios knew the feeling of invincibility was a delusion. The power offered was real enough. Her left hand itched and burned, it too felt the power of dream. The palm of her hand was safely covered by stiff leather, the thongs that held it in place traced a webbing across the back of her hand to her wrist. It was a mark of power to some; to others, corruption; to Keleios, an unfortunate accident. The left reached for the ward. She clinched it into a fist and placed it rigid at her side. Most of the she could ignore it, but after dreaming, all power was magnified. Though she had once held the rank of master dreamer, her control was strained and leaked round the edges. Tiny sparks of magic flitted through the room.

She called to them, trying to swallow past the building power. Sorcery was the worst for a dreamer to have for it was so much easier to have accidents. Melandra woke first, rolling onto her side and blinking into the near-dark. She clutched a knit shawl across the shoulders of her brown dress. She scrambled to her feet, thick golden-brown hair floating in disarray over her scarred face. She was only thirteen and still had baby fat to lose. Her face was an old face, broken and battered. She was a Calthuian, and they outlawed magic there. So there had been no healer to fix the damage her father and mother inflicted.

They had tried to beat the evil magic out of her. Magic will come out one way or another. She was an enchanter and worked in flour, sugar, and spices.

Selene was awake, brown eyes searching the dark, as if this wasn’t where she expected to be when she woke up. She stood tall for a Zairdian noble, and slender. The square-cut bodice of her dress was covered in white lace that formed a frill around her neck, traced by black velvet. The only skin that showed was face and hands.

Melandra was already kneeling by the ward, having sensed Keleios’ haste, but paused and looked up at the older girl. “Was it the sign of ending, or of infinity that allows safe passage?”

“Could you really trace a symbol of infinity in such a small space? I don’t think I could.” Melandra shook her head and mumbled, “No, I suppose not.”

The symbol of ending traced through the reddish powder and made the warding neutral until the symbol was wiped away. Keleios stepped over the line, careful not to smudge it.

A shudder ran down her spine.

Selene asked, “Are you all right?”

“No, there was a phantasm in the tower tonight.”

Both girls gasped. Melandra said, “Keleios, how?”

“There’s no time. Is anyone else in the tower besides myself?” She prayed that Alys had gone long ago.

“The child Alys is still here.” Selene paled. “Oh, Keleios, do you think?”

“Melandra, go find a healer, preferably a white-robed.”

The girl nodded and was gone, running down the stairs. A tic had begun just under Keleios’ right eye, a sign of stress. The dream tugged at her to be gone; no time , it cried, no time. Her back rippled, and she covered her face with her hands. “I control my

powers; they do not control me.” When she felt steady once more, she put down her hands.

“Keleios, you are too full of dream tonight.”

“If she isn’t already gone, time is precious. Open the ward to me.”

Selene did as she was told even though as a fellow journeyman she could have argued. Keleios stepped in front of the child’s room and paused with her hand upon the doorknob. She gathered her will one last time. There was no way to tell what sort of power lurked in the room. The visit from the Shadow messenger was still vivid and close. Evil was abroad tonight, and if one spell could enter the tower, there could be others.

She pushed the door forward, fighting an urge to use magic on it. She was constantly urging the apprentice sorcerers not to use their power on trivialities like opening doors.