by E. E. Holmes
“What do I know to be true of prophecies?” I asked.
“They are not set in stone. They are not immune to the actions of those they speak of. It was right there in the words of the Isherwood Prophecy: ‘she will have the power.’ Your agency mattered. Your decisions mattered. You fought for the only outcome you would accept and in the end, you triumphed.”
“But that was different. That was about putting myself in harm’s way,” I said.
“And for most anyone else, that would have been a hundred times harder than risking another,” Finn said. “Annabelle is a strong woman, just as you are. Sit down with her. Tell her what you’ve seen. Give her every detail. Perhaps she will have the answer.”
“And if she doesn’t?” I murmured.
“Then you will find the answer together. But you cannot carry this on your shoulders, Jess. The burden is not yours alone.”
I sighed. “Let her sleep. When she wakes up, I’ll tell her everything.”
22
Before the Council
IT WAS ANOTHER SLEEPLESS NIGHT. At this point I would be lucky to stay conscious during my testimony at Irina’s trial, let alone make a compelling case for her release.
Around dawn, Flavia emerged from the Scribes’ wagon. She carried two cups of strong black coffee, which Finn and I accepted gratefully.
“Have you told her?” Flavia asked us, nodding up at the wagon in which Annabelle still slept.
“Not yet. We decided to let her sleep. But I’m going to tell her as soon as she wakes up,” I told her. The hot mug sent feeling creeping up into my numb fingers. “Have you found out anything? Anything at all that might help us?”
“I’m reviewing as much information about Rifting and Seers as I can find, Jess,” Flavia told me. “There’s a lot to go through, and much of it is very old and very obscure. But there must be something there, there must be.” She spoke with the certainly of a bibliophile whose beloved books had never yet let her down.
“I hope you’re right,” I said.
“Is it safe to come out?” a voice behind me asked.
I whirled around. Annabelle was leaning out of the top of the Dutch door, her hair tousled and her expression wary.
“We’ll come in, if that’s okay,” I told her.
“Sure,” Annabelle said cautiously. “But can you tell me what’s going on this time, instead of just screaming at me to leave?”
“Yes,” I said. “I’m sorry about that. I didn’t mean to scare you.” I turned to Flavia. “Will you join us, too, Flavia?”
“Of course,” Flavia said. “I’ll fetch the sketch book, shall I? And let me get some more coffee. Annabelle, some for you?”
“Yes, please,” Annabelle said gratefully. Then she stepped back and opened the bottom half of the door. “Come on in. Let’s hear the worst.”
§
If there is one thing I will never do again for the rest of my life, it is underestimate Annabelle Rabinski.
As I struggled through one of the most difficult conversations of my life, she simply listened, looking thoughtful and nodding her head. When I showed her the sketchbook, she did not flinch or cry out, but drew her eyebrows together contemplatively, poring over the details of her own likeness without fear or revulsion.
When I described the Rifting, and what I had learned there, she leaned forward, absolutely riveted. Finally, when I had completely talked myself out, she sat back, let out a long sigh, and smiled at me.
“Well. No wonder you’ve been harassing me night and day for the last week!”
A short, slightly hysterical laugh escaped me. “Yeah. Sorry about the low-key stalking, but, as you can see, I had a good reason.”
“Jessica.” Annabelle reached forward and took my hand in hers, squeezing it. “Despite our mutual animosity when we met, we are friends now, aren’t we?”
“Of course, we are,” I said, my voice breaking. “Do you even have to ask me that?”
“Friends need to trust each other. Friends need to tell each other the truth, always, even in the face of fear or uncertainty. Especially then,” Annabelle said.
“Don’t be angry, please,” I choked out. “I was just trying to—”
“Protect me,” Annabelle finished the sentence for me. “I know that, and I love you for it. But I don’t need your protection. This world of prophecies and spirits is my world, too, Jess. It’s my reality as much as it’s yours. And I can handle it. I promise you, I can handle it.”
“I know. I know you can,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” Annabelle said gruffly, letting go of my hand again and resuming her usual unflappable demeanor. “First let me just say that I was here with you three years ago. I witnessed Irina’s torture. I saw the deplorable state they left that poor woman in, and I have every intention of helping you secure her release, if I can.”
“Annabelle, that’s kind of you, but seriously, after what you’ve just seen, you can’t possibly want to get involved with—” I began.
“Jessica Ballard don’t you dare presume to tell me what I do and do not want to get involved with! I will get involved with whatever I damn well please!” Annabelle snapped. “Besides, it appears that the spirit world has already decided that I have a role to play here. There is no point in denying that, or running away from it. We just need to understand it better. So. Let’s be logical about this.”
She stood up so swiftly that Flavia, Finn, and I all jumped.
“There are two options here, as far as I can see. Either the Council will free Irina and allow her to Cross, or they will condemn her, and we will have to find a way to free her ourselves. Flavia, you know the Council best. What do you think the chances are that the Council will be persuaded to let Irina Cross?”
Flavia shook her head sadly. “Her betrayal has run too deep to be forgiven. I do not think they will let her go.”
Annabelle nodded. “That is as I expected. Even living away from the clans, those same attitudes ran deep in my family. Woe betide the person foolish enough to betray my grandmother’s trust.”
Flavia smiled gently. “It’s in our blood.”
Annabelle nodded, then started to pace. “So, it comes down to interpreting this prophetic sketch of Jessica’s, doesn’t it? If we can understand it, we can move forward.”
“But the image is . . . clear, isn’t it?” I asked.
Annabelle shook her head. “Nothing is clear in these matters, Jessica. Nothing is literal, and nothing is set in stone. A single word, a single step, can change everything. Has it occurred to you that this drawing may not even be literal?”
I frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Perhaps the image is figurative? You’re an artist, Jessica. You know that art can be symbolic and open to interpretation.”
I couldn’t fathom a different interpretation of the image than what it showed, but now didn’t seem like the right moment to voice that particular thought.
Annabelle did not seem to require a response from me, but turned instead to Flavia. “Flavia, surely you have documentation of prophetic imagery and its eventual interpretation? The Scribes must have made ample study of that.”
Flavia nodded. “Yes, of course. In fact, I’ve spent the last few hours gathering it to analyze. But it’s a daunting task. There is so much material.”
“Do you think you could enlist the help of any of the other Scribes without attracting suspicion?” Finn asked.
“If I frame it right, I suppose I could,” Flavia said, biting her lip. “Everilda doesn’t usually ask many questions.”
“Excellent. Do it,” Annabelle said. “It’s important to understand everything we can about how these images present themselves. In the meantime, though, it sounds like much rests on the trial. What time is your testimony today?” Annabelle asked me.
“Noon,” I said.
“Let’s see what the outcome there is, before we panic,” Annabelle said firmly. “A single vote, one way or a
nother, could completely negate this prophecy, whatever it may mean.”
“No pressure,” I said under my breath. As if enough weren’t already resting on what I had to say in front of the Council.
“We—that is to say, several of the other Travelers and I—have been preparing a petition asking for Irina’s release. We intend to present it before the Council at the end of trial, after all of the evidence has been heard,” Flavia said. “Jess is the last witness on the schedule at noon today.”
“So, Jessica will prepare herself for the Council testimony. I will assist Flavia in any way I can until noon. We will all meet up again at the trial,” Annabelle said, in the tone of a sports coach reviewing a game plan with her team. I half-expected her to tell us to put our hands in for some kind of cheer.
“Finn,” I said sharply, as we all stood. “I want you to stay with Annabelle. Please.”
Annabelle smirked. “Oh, come on, Jess. Don’t you trust me not to get myself killed between now and noon?”
“I don’t trust anything to do with this prophecy, or any other prophecy for that matter,” I said.
“I can’t blame you for that,” Annabelle said, and gave my hand a reassuring squeeze. “So why don’t you go back to those Spirit Guides and give them a message from me. Prophecy or no prophecy, I have no intention of dying.”
§
The inside of Ileana’s tent was abuzz with anticipation as we entered it at five minutes to noon. It was stiflingly hot. The usual fire was ablaze, and every single Traveler in the camp had crammed themselves into every corner and crevice of the tent, perched on benches, chairs, upturned crates, trunks, and even each other’s backs. A short bench had been placed on either side of Ileana’s carved wooden throne, and three women sat on each one, looking austerely out over the excited crowd. Apparently, the Traveler Council consisted of only six members. Ileana sat in the middle, surveying the crowd with her beady eyes.
Not even Finn’s reassuring presence at my side, as I took a seat in the front row of benches, could stop my hands from shaking or my mind from racing. On my other side, Annabelle tried to smile reassuringly, but she only managed a pained sort of grimace. Despite her determinedly brave attitude, her nerves were starting to fray as well. She and Flavia had managed to find several instances of Seer images that had to be interpreted symbolically, but nothing that could be applied to my own sketch, which was, in my opinion, terrifyingly literal.
I looked around for some sign of Irina, but there was none. Perhaps they would march her in, shackled like the prisoner she was, when the proceedings started? I leaned across to Flavia and asked her.
“They can’t safely bring her here. There’s no way to contain her within the confines of the tent, and she’s too violent in close proximity to other people,” Flavia replied.
“So, they’re holding her trial without her?” I whispered incredulously. “She doesn’t even get to hear what’s being said against her? Or in her defense?”
Flavia shook her head. “You saw what she was like the other night. No one can get near her.”
Somewhere out in the clearing, a gong sounded twelve times, marking the hour. Ileana raised a gnarled old hand, and the tent immediately fell silent.
“Our proceedings in the trial of Irina Faa will now resume,” Ileana began, and immediately a translator began echoing her words in a Romanian dialect for the older members of the clans that did not use much English. “Today we will hear the testimony of Jessica Ballard, Tracker for the Northern Clans,” Ileana went on, beckoning me forward and pointing to a carved wooden stool that had been placed directly in front of the Council.
I stood up and nodded, trying to look—I don’t know—responsible? Professional? I was here in an official capacity, I reminded myself. I was a Tracker, with an important job. I was not under attack here. I was not the one on trial, despite the feeling of dread that settled over me as I sat myself on the edge of the chair. The feeling of dozens of pairs of eyes on my back gave me a creeping sensation up and down my spine.
“Elder Oshina will conduct the questioning,” Ileana announced. She relaxed back into her throne and picked up her pipe from the arm of her chair, thrusting it between her teeth. She tucked a leg up under herself and I realized with a start that, even in the midst of an official trial, she was barefoot.
The Council member nearest me stood up and cleared her throat. I tore my eyes from Ileana’s knurled old toes and focused on her. “Miss Ballard,” she began, in a heavy accent that she compensated for by speaking very slowly and clearly, “Thank you for consenting to testify today. Your presence is appreciated.”
I nodded stiffly in reply as a round of muttering went through the crowd behind me, including several distinct hisses. My presence was clearly not appreciated by everyone, particularly those who still blamed me for the violence of the Necromancer attack.
Elder Oshina went on. “I would first like to establish your background connection to Irina. For the official record, when did you first meet her?”
“I first met her a little over three years ago, when I sought refuge here in the Traveler camp. After I was informed by High Priestess Ileana that I was likely a Walker, Irina was enlisted to teach me how to Walk.”
“How would you describe your first impressions of her?”
“She was . . . unstable,” I said, trying to choose my words very carefully. “She thought of nothing except Walking and escaping her own body, which she described as a prison.”
“And when she was Walking? How was she different?”
“She was . . . happy. No, that’s not even adequate. She was . . . joyful. Elated. She claimed that once I Walked, I would never want to re-enter my body again,” I said.
“And was that true?” Elder Oshina asked.
“No,” I said. “I found Walking to be disorienting and frightening, at least at first. Even when I got the hang of it, I still never felt so disconnected from my body that I didn’t want to return to it.”
“I see. So, do you think that Irina was exaggerating the sensation of Walking?” Elder Oshina asked.
“No,” I said. “No, it was just different for her because she wasn’t a true Walker.”
Elder Oshina and several other Council members frowned at me, and the crowd began to mutter. “What do you mean, she wasn’t a true Walker?”
I hesitated nervously. “Well, that’s how it was explained to me. Just because someone can Walk, doesn’t mean that they should. The ability to do it does not guarantee the ability to tolerate its effects on the mind and body. I am a true Walker, and so my connection to my body remains undamaged by the act of Walking. Irina, though able to Walk, could not withstand prolonged absence from her body. That’s why she’s . . . well, you’ve all seen how she is,” I finished, looking around the room as I said it.
“So, do you believe that Irina’s actions are the result of an altered mental state, and not a result of willful disobedience and betrayal?” Elder Oshina asked sharply, and I could tell from her tone that it was a dangerous question to answer.
“I am sure that this Council has had much more experience with Irina than I have. I’m sure that you have interrogated her as a part of these proceedings. I doubt you need my opinion on this matter,” I hedged.
“But we have asked you for it,” Ileana said, pulling her pipe from her mouth and scratching her chin with it as she considered me. “Are you refusing to give it?”
“No,” I said quickly. “Sorry, I wasn’t trying to . . . Yes, I believe that Irina’s mental state has been altered drastically by Walking.”
“And your mental state? Has it been affected at all?” Ileana asked.
The question felt like a trap. “No, I don’t believe so. But I’ve only Walked briefly and, as I explained before, a true Walker—”
“Thank you, that will do,” Elder Oshina said, cutting me off. “Let us move on to the events of October of last year.”
I pressed my lips together and swallowed my angry reto
rt. I would not do Irina or myself any favors by flying off the handle. I could almost feel Finn’s silent pleas behind me. Keep your temper, Jess. Keep it together.
“Please explain, in as much detail as you can, how you came into contact with Irina again in October,” Elder Oshina prompted.
“I was working on my first case for the Trackers. They sent my sister, my Caomhnóir, and me down to New Orleans, Louisiana to investigate a spiritual retreat called Whispering Seraph. The owner of the property was a self-proclaimed spiritual guru named Jeremiah Campbell who claimed that an angel had come down to earth and was guiding him to help people connect with their deceased loved ones.”
Anger rippled through the watching Travelers. It was a relief to know that they looked upon people like Jeremiah Campbell with the same contempt as I did.
“As a result of our investigation, we discovered that the ‘angel’ was, in fact, Irina, guiding Campbell’s actions. She was drawn to Whispering Seraph because there was an old, dismantled Geatgrima buried in the basement of the plantation house. She used Campbell, in an unsuccessful attempt, to rebuild and reopen that Geatgrima.”
Several gasps caused me to look over my shoulder. Mouths were agape all through the crowd. Apparently, all of the details of Irina’s escapades had not reached beyond the Traveler Council.
“Was Irina successful in rebuilding the Geatgrima?” Elder Oshina asked.
“No. We Unmasked her before she was able to reconstruct it,” I said.
“And what was her endgame? Why did she want to rebuild the Geatgrima?” Elder Oshina pressed.
“She . . . well, her goals changed. At first, all she wanted was to be able to Cross. She no longer trusted any fellow Durupinen to help her do it. But once she began the process, she decided that she could create a point of free passage, where spirits could, in essence, Cross themselves, without the help or permission of the Durupinen,” I explained.
The reaction was predictable. Irina’s plan was blatant blasphemy to anyone who believed in the calling of the Durupinen. One older woman toward the back of the tent began spewing a steady stream of curses, and grew so hysterical that a younger woman took her by the arm and escorted her out of the tent.
