Awakening of the Seer

by E. E. Holmes

  Dragos met us at the entrance of the tent, arms folded across his chest like bolts barring a door.

  “You’re late,” Dragos barked. I opened my mouth to argue that we had arrived on time, but closed it again when I saw he was looking not at us, but at the three young men who had escorted us.

  “These Northerners are slow walkers,” the tall one replied, barely able to keep his face straight, particularly when the burly one beside him snorted with laughter.

  “Do not blame the visitors for your shortcomings, Ruslo,” Dragos snapped at him. “Now all of you, make yourselves useful at the bonfire.” All three of the Caomhnóir jogged off back down the path, roaring with laughter and trying to shove each other into snowbanks.

  “Ileana would like to welcome you to the camp,” Dragos said stiffly to me, as the laughter died away. “You may go inside. I will find someone to bring you to your accommodations when the High Priestess dismisses you.” He turned to Finn. “I would like to fill you in on security procedures while you are here. If you would follow me, please.”

  Finn hesitated. He turned to me, but I answered the question before he could form it. “I will be perfectly fine here. Do what you need to do.”

  Finn nodded curtly, partly in show of the cold distant relationship we were supposed to be maintaining, and partly because I knew he wasn’t happy about leaving me there on my own. He glanced back at me once before turning and following Dragos down the path the other Caomhnóir had followed.

  My heart suddenly began to drum inside my chest as I stepped through the tent flaps. The interior of the tent was exactly how I remembered it, full of Durupinen relics and old, antique furniture jumbled together to give the appearance of having walked into a smuggler’s den of treasures. And there, lounging casually on her great carved throne . . .

  “High Priestess,” I said, bowing my head in deference.

  “And here she is at last,” Ileana replied. Her wild hair was knotted back from her weathered old face in a scarf that rattled with a fringe of gold coins. “I thought, when you left this place a smoking ruin, that we would never see you again, at least not alive. But here you are.”

  “Here I am,” I said stiffly, unsure how to respond to her words, which seemed to contain some sort of accusation.

  “Couldn’t believe my ears when I heard you’d actually done it,” Ileana went on. She clucked her tongue and held out her arm. With a startling flutter of shining black wings, a one-eyed raven swooped down from the shadowy eaves of the tent and came to rest on her forearm. I’d released the very same raven from its cage when the Necromancers attacked. Evidently it saw fit to return to its mistress rather than make a permanent bid for freedom. Ileana cracked a peanut open with her teeth, spat the shell out on the floor, and held the nut out for the bird, who snapped it up greedily. “Thought you’d Walk yourself right into oblivion and leave us all to the mercy of the Wraiths,” she chuckled. “But you surprised us all, including yourself, I daresay.”

  I just nodded, since I was pretty sure I was being insulted.

  “There are many,” she went on, nudging the bird with her finger so that he hopped up onto her shoulder instead, “that consider you a bit of a bad omen, Jessica.”

  “Yeah, I get a bit of that back at Fairhaven, too,” I said, attempting a smile. “Must be this raincloud that keeps following me around.”

  Ileana did not acknowledge the joke. “We appreciate what you did for the Durupinen, make no mistake. But the pall of the Prophecy doesn’t wash off so easy.”

  “Is this how you welcome all your guests?” I asked dryly. “Seriously, the hospitality is overwhelming.”

  “I’m trying to warn you to keep your head down while you’re here,” Ileana said, cracking another nut and tossing it into her own mouth.

  “I’m here at your request,” I said. “Believe me, I wasn’t fishing for an invitation. You ordered me here, and that’s the only reason I’ve come.”

  “And there are many who have criticized my decision to summon you,” Ileana snapped. “But it seems that the stories of the two Walkers are too closely intertwined to examine one without including the other.”

  I swallowed back a spasm of fear. It was almost as if she knew.

  “Would you like me to leave then?”

  “I would like you to be on your guard.”

  “I am happy to provide my testimony and get out of here as quickly as I can,” I said after a moment’s awkward silence.

  “And we thank you for your cooperation in this process,” Ileana said with a sardonic grin. “Welcome back.”

  I laughed. “Am I dismissed?”

  “You are, indeed,” Ileana said, stroking the raven’s feathers with the tip of one arthritic finger. “Dragos will inform you when we are ready for your testimony before the Traveler Council.”

  “Thank you,” I said curtly, and turned to exit the tent.

  I’d barely had a moment to take a deep breath of cold air when a soft, familiar voice called out, “Well, well, well, if it isn’t the Northern Girl.”

  I smiled before I had even turned. “Well, well, well,” I replied. “If it isn’t the keeper of the world’s weirdest mobile library.”

  Flavia walked toward me, a slow grin blooming across her face. Her hair was shaved on one side, and tousled over one eye in shades of turquoise and green. A tiny silver nose ring glittered in the side of her nose like a dewdrop on grass, and her wide brown eyes were framed by dark, rectangular glasses. A new tattoo peaked up from the neckline of her tattered red sweater; I could just make out the curve of several black feathers inked over her collarbone. I hadn’t seen her in over three years, since the night the Necromancers attacked the Traveler camp. It had been one of the most terrifying nights of my life—and of hers too, I imagine. In a tearful, panicked burst of genius, she had smeared me in a dead Traveler’s blood and begged me to Walk to save my own life. If I hadn’t done as she’d urged . . . well, I tried not to think about it too much. I already spent way more time dwelling on the finer points of mortality than any relatively young and healthy person should.

  Flavia closed the last few steps between us and enclosed me in a warm hug. “Welcome back. How have you been?” she asked me.

  “I’m fine,” I said, knowing full well it was a bullshit answer. No reason to unload on the poor girl the moment I saw her. “How is Scribe life?”

  Flavia rolled her eyes. “A thrill a minute, just how I like it,” she said. “Has anyone showed you to your wagon yet?”

  “Oh, uh,” I looked back over my shoulder. “Finn went to check in with Dragos. They were supposed to send someone to—”

  Flavia was already shaking her head. “Don’t hold your breath. Traveler Caomhnóir aren’t exactly renowned for their reliability. They’ll start sparring and drinking and forget all about you.”

  “Wow, really?” I asked, eyebrows raised. “We can hardly get rid of ours at Fairhaven.”

  Flavia grinned again and stooped over to scoop my backpack off the grass where I’d dropped it when I’d entered the tent. “Come on. I’ll show you where you’re staying.”

  We wandered through the encampment, a semi-permanent little settlement of colorful tents and old wooden wagons, as though a traveling sideshow circus had dropped anchor or else sprung up from the ground like mushrooms amongst the copses of ancient trees. Each cluster of dwellings was connected to those around it by well-worn footpaths, the grass and moss trodden away by scurrying feet. On all sides, smoke blossomed out of tin chimney stacks and swirled up from cooking fires crackling away in stone-circled firepits and old, cracked chimeneas. Here and there, a bedraggled horse nibbled at the patches of grass around its feet and barefoot children darted in and out of the shadows, their laughter as sudden and bright as the patches of sunlight that filtered down through the trees. Though I’d been unbearably cold while waiting on the outskirts of the forest, here amidst the campfires it felt unseasonably warm, and I found myself wishing I’d dispensed with the
parka.

  “I wasn’t sure if you’d still be here,” I said to Flavia as we walked.

  “I wouldn’t be, if I had the choice,” Flavia said over her shoulder. “I finished my PhD in linguistics last year, but times are hard for an academic without university connections. I’m hoping some college takes pity on me soon so that I can finally get out on my own. Oh, don’t tell anyone I said that,” she added, stopping short and turning to look at me, looking slightly alarmed. “Our Council doesn’t take kindly to deserters.”

  “Deserters?” I asked incredulously. “Isn’t that a little harsh? You’ll still be a Durupinen after all, won’t you?”

  “Not by Traveler standards,” Flavia said. “I’d be an outcast.”

  “But,” I said, sputtering. “Do they really expect you to just . . . stay in the woods your entire life? I mean,” I grimaced. “Sorry, that sounded really rude.”

  “It’s fine. I’m not offended,” Flavia said gently. “Not many outsiders can wrap their heads around how we live. Most of the other clans have integrated into modern society, but the Traveler Clans remain an utter anachronism. We’re a much smaller band of clans. As nomads, we’ve always had to band together for protection, and over the years it has built a rather xenophobic culture. Breaking away from the encampment for more than a short time is considered a great betrayal of our way of life. We stick together like a pack, normally.”

  “So, how did you go to school, then?”

  “It wasn’t easy,” Flavia admitted. “I had to present my case before the Council, proving how the degree would help my work as a Scribe. And it will!” she said defensively. “I still want to do Scribe work. I still remain committed to our clans, but there is so much more out there to study, and learn, and I just . . .” she gestured helplessly around the clearing.

  “You don’t have to convince me,” I said. “I would have tied one of those horses to a wagon and ridden out of here a long time ago if it were me.”

  Flavia laughed into the back of her hand. “Those horses wouldn’t get you far. They’re old, spoiled, and fat. God forbid we ever have to move this encampment more than a mile or two. We’ll be carrying those horses on our backs rather than the other way around.”

  We followed the footpath around the back of a silver Airstream trailer that looked like a rusty zeppelin on wheels and Flavia stopped, pointing ahead of us. “Just over here,” she said. It was a wooden wagon just like the one I’d stayed in the last time I’d been here, except this one had been painted bright blue with gold trim and was outfitted with just one set of bunks instead of two. Two green glass lanterns, shaped like stars, swung gently on gold chains on either side of the Dutch doors.

  “It’s been all set up for you,” Flavia said. “I saw Andrei loading up the wood stove earlier today. You should be nice and warm in here.”

  With the unmistakable feeling that I was stepping over some invisible threshold into one of the Grimm Brothers’ imaginations, I followed Flavia inside.

  Flavia was right; the little wagon was downright toasty. She sat on a little wooden bench with her arms around her knees, watching me as I disgorged the contents of my bag into the built-in wooden drawers beneath the sleeping loft at the far end. I tried to smooth them out, but as I had shoved them so unceremoniously into the bag to begin with, I closed the drawer on a hopelessly wrinkled jumble. Oh, well. Who was I afraid was going to judge my wardrobe in the middle of the woods? I opened a few of the cabinets and found chipped porcelain plates and bowls, a few Mason jars, some tarnished silverware, a wrought iron kettle, and some ancient tins of oatmeal, sugar, and tea.

  “You don’t need to worry about cooking,” Flavia said. “Everyone just meets at the bonfire at the center of the encampment to eat. It’s like a potluck three times a day.”

  I nodded. “As long as there’s coffee, I’ll be fine.”

  “A cauldron full of it. Very black and very strong,” Flavia promised.

  “Music to my ears,” I replied. I climbed up onto the bed and sighed. “So.”

  “So?”

  “Irina.”

  Flavia’s smile faded. A furrow appeared between her eyebrows. “Yes.”

  “What can you tell me? How is she?”

  Flavia shook her head. “It’s been terrible. They shut her back up in her wagon when the Trackers brought her home. But she’s . . . not taking it well.”

  “I could have figured that much out for myself. Can you be a little more specific?” I asked.

  Flavia leaned forward and spoke just above a whisper, as though saying the words more quietly would protect us from their horror. “The first night she was back she set the wagon on fire.”

  I gasped. “What? How? I thought they kept her chained up so she couldn’t hurt herself?”

  Flavia grimaced. “It was Andrei. He fell asleep with that blasted pipe hanging out of his mouth, and somehow she managed to get ahold of it and drop it in the hay.”

  “We saw Andrei on the way in. Is that why he’s all bandaged up?” It wasn’t hard to imagine him landing himself in a compromising position like falling asleep with a lit pipe in his mouth.

  “Yes,” Flavia said. “His injuries were fairly superficial, but Irina was burned very badly. They barely managed to pull her from the flames, and as soon as they did, she attempted to Walk. They had to perform an emergency Caging and then got permission to heal her body with Leeching.”

  “Jesus,” I muttered, horrified. “Was she trying to kill herself, or just get out of the boundaries of the Castings so she could Walk?”

  Flavia shook her head sadly. “She wouldn’t say, but does it matter? Either way she would have had a chance of escape.”

  A white-hot anger flashed through me so intensely that, for a moment, my vision actually went dark. “What the hell is wrong with them? Don’t they realize that the only humane thing to do is to release her? Whether they want to admit it or not, every minute she spends in that body is cruel and unusual punishment. If she’s willing to burn herself alive rather than stay inside that body, why don’t they just let her go?”

  Flavia’s hands jerked upward in a helpless gesture. “Somewhere in this mess she stopped being a person to them and started being something that needed to be tamed into submission. They fear she will wreak havoc upon them when she’s free.”

  “Is she well enough to stand trial?” I asked through gritted teeth.

  Flavia nodded. “They healed her body, if that’s what you mean. But she remains as volatile and desperate as ever in her mind.”

  “What do you think they’ll do to her?” I asked quietly. “Do you think she stands a chance of being freed?”

  Flavia bit her lip. “I won’t venture to say. But they’ve gone to great pains to recapture and contain her. I find it hard to believe they will simply let her go. When she escaped, she confirmed all their worst fears. Is it really true? Did she attempt to take control of a Geatgrima in America? That’s the rumor around the camp.”

  “Yeah, it’s true,” I said.

  “Then I fear her fate will be one of confinement,” Flavia said. “It is not in the culture of the Traveler Clans to forgive such base betrayal.”

  “But,” I sputtered incredulously, “surely they can understand why she did it!”

  “Logically, I’m sure they can. But logic matters little in matters of clan loyalty. I assure you, the stereotype of gypsy passion is far from exaggerated,” Flavia said.

  A sharp rap sounded on the bottom half of the Dutch door. Finn stood framed in the opening, his jaw set and tense. “Apologies for the interruption.”

  “Not at all,” Flavia said, standing up at once. “I was just helping to get Jessica settled. I’ll leave you both to it. Dinner around the bonfire in about two hours, if you’re hungry.”

  “We’ll see you there,” I assured her. “And Flavia?”

  “Yes?”

  “Ileana told me that many of the Travelers wouldn’t want me here, because they would see my presence as a
bad omen. So, I guess, thanks for not running screaming when you saw me.”

  “I’m not the running and screaming type, usually,” she said with a laugh. Then she pushed her glasses back up the bridge of her nose, and left.

  “What are you looking so delighted about?” I inquired of Finn’s stony expression.

  “The Caomhnóir operation here is . . . less than ideal,” he said, with an air of great restraint.

  “Would you care to elaborate?” I asked.

  “No,” he said shortly. “Suffice it to say that I’m not in the least surprised that the Necromancers were able to stage their attack so successfully three years ago. Utter incompetence in the ranks, and they just shrug it off.”

  I tried not to smile. “I suppose you’ll just have to protect everyone, then,” I said.

  Finn glared at me. “I bloody well may have to. No shift changes, no reports system to speak of, no accountability. What a farce.”

  “They seemed on top of their game the last time we were here,” I said. “Well, that Andrei was clearly a weak link, but otherwise they seemed competent.” And I told him what Flavia had divulged about Andrei and the pipe.

  “That is precisely what I’m talking about!” Finn cried. “That man should never have been allowed to guard anything, let alone a dangerous prisoner with a penchant for violent escapes! He ought to have been relieved of duty long ago, when his commitment to remaining perpetually pissed outstripped his commitment to protecting his clan.” He was so worked up that specks of spit were flying from his mouth like a Shakespearean actor in the throes of a soliloquy. He took a deep breath to calm himself. “I don’t mean to paint every one of them with the same brush, mind you. There are a few who take their duty seriously. Dragos, for one, is clearly more than competent, but I would expect little else from the Caomhnóir assigned to the High Priestess. But the younger crop are a rebellious lot. All bluster and no discipline, which is a dangerous combination. They need a semester at Fairhaven to whip them into shape.”

  “Little whippersnappers,” I said, then laughed as he scowled at me. “Come on, Finn, lighten up. Who cares if the Traveler Caomhnóir are a mess? It’s not your problem! We’ll be out of here in a few days.”