The Seer's Curse

by J. J. Faulks

  The goat pulled harder at the material, determined to pull the whole thing to the floor. Orleigh crouched down, ready to wrestle the goat and grab hold of it. She pounced. The goat bleated and ran. It darted past her, skipping back down the stairs. Losing her balance, she stumbled into the wall.

  She sank to the floor, shaking her head to herself. How could she be outsmarted by a goat? As she caught her breath, she ran the edge of the wall hanging through her fingers. It was a little frayed, but only noticeable close up. As she lifted the material, something golden and set into the wall peeked out from behind.

  Scrambling to her feet, she slipped behind the hanging. There was a keyhole on one side and hinges on the other, all surrounded by a square-shaped gap. She fumbled with the key, her hand shaking a little as she inserted into the lock. The key turned, the lock clicked, the door opened. She climbed inside.

  The room was cramped, more like a cupboard than an actual room, and very tidy, as if everything had a specific place and someone took great care to preserve the order. A number of dresses, each finished with the flair of a seamstress, were draped over a table at the back of the room. A single stack of books leant against the wall; the one at the top of the pile had a bookmark slipped in part the way through. On top of a small wooden chest lay a comb, a few auburn hairs still laced through its teeth. Orleigh’s hand lifted to her own hair, her finger twisting through one reddish curl. Next to the comb sat a delicate golden brooch.

  She reached for the brooch, her thumb brushing over the gemstones. The studs of aquamarine formed the letter ‘A’.

  “A,” she murmured. “Who’s A?”

  With a frown, she set the brooch back down upon the wooden chest.

  The clothes, the books, the belongings—she was not the first person that Teymos had brought to his estate. Whatever he was hiding, it went beyond the fire in the village and his interest in her. She was part of an even bigger secret.

  Orleigh left the room exactly as she had found it, taking care to cover the door with the wall hanging as if it had never been disturbed. As she walked through the house, it felt as though she were seeing it again for the first time. What had once been magical and awe-inspiring was now foreign and threatening under her suspicious eye.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  "I don’t care what the other gods think about me—I’m quite happy having nothing to do with them!—but I want them to stop corrupting my son!”

  Beighlen had tucked himself into an alcove, but he leant out into the corridor so that he could catch every word of the conversation that drifted past the closed door.

  “Corrupt is a strong word,” Teymos said.

  Beighlen agreed, he wasn’t corrupt. The alcove was as close as he could get to the door without being exposed in the open corridor. It wasn’t ideal for eavesdropping, as softer spoken words were hard to catch at such a distance, but he could not spot a better hiding place.

  “Asking him to carry out tasks that are not related to the Script, asking him to do things for their own benefit—it’s immoral!” Nestra said. Beighlen rolled his eyes. “I heard about a murder in the Land of Mortals the other day—”

  “Murders aren’t uncommon,” Teymos said.

  “The man who was murdered happened to be the husband of Efrinon’s mistress,” Nestra said. When Teymos tried to respond she spoke louder, silencing him. “And the murder happened to be inspired by a vision. Who do you think provided that vision?”

  Beighlen looked to the ground and withdrew into the shelter of the alcove.

  “Do you really think that Beighlen was responsible?” Teymos asked.

  “I think that Beighlen will do anything for recognition,” Nestra said. “And I think that the other gods will take advantage of that.”

  There was a long silence. Beighlen imagined that his mother was sighing and shaking her head in the way that she so often did.

  “I’ve tried talking to him numerous times,” Nestra said. “But he won’t listen to me. He doesn’t respect me—”

  “He does respect you,” Teymos said.

  “No,” Nestra said. “He doesn’t. He resents me for taking him away from his father.”

  Beighlen’s jaw clenched. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the corner of the wall. He didn’t have to listen, he reminded himself. The stairs were just across the corridor from the alcove. He could retreat to the comfort of his room if he liked. But he stayed.

  “You did what you had to do,” Teymos said. There was a pause. “Look. I’ll talk to him, if you like. He listens to me. Sometimes.”

  “Of course he listens to you!” Nestra said. Beighlen thought he heard his mother laugh. “You’re the mighty Earth God; he’d do anything for your approval!”

  Teymos muttered something in reply, but it wasn’t loud enough for Beighlen to hear. He was sure that Teymos would stick up for him though. Teymos didn’t treat him like a child.

  “Where is Beighlen?” Teymos asked.

  “I don’t know. Probably in the Land of Mortals again,” Nestra said. Beighlen’s imagination provided the accompanying sigh that was lost to the closed door. “I sacrificed…oh, it doesn’t matter. He’s old enough now that he’ll do as he pleases.”

  “I’ll talk to him. I promise,” Teymos said.

  If he lingered any longer, he would be at risk of being discovered. When the time came for Teymos to leave, he would pass the alcove and—if Beighlen was still there—he would realise that Beighlen had been listening in. Beighlen slipped from the alcove, crossed the hallway and snuck up the stairs. He placed his feet lightly and avoided the creaky fourth step, escaping without a sound.

  In his room, Beighlen knelt on the floor at the end of his bed. He pulled out the trunk that was hidden underneath. The trunk was as light as if it were empty. He glanced up at the door, checking once more that it was closed, before opening the trunk. Nestled inside the trunk were row upon row of glowing spheres.

  Each orb was formed from tiny threads that had been spun together. He had made them himself, plucking threads of perception from the air and weaving them into visions. In their dormant state, the visions formed these spheres. Those created most recently shone brightly, whilst the oldest had a dim pastel glow.

  The visions in the trunk were special. They weren’t messages or dreams meant for mortals and sent at the command of the gods. They were created by him and for him alone. Whenever he travelled to the Land of Mortals, he preserved his trip as one of these orbs. The trunk contained a living journal.

  He enjoyed his visits to the Land of Mortals. Walking amongst mortals gave him a rush of superiority. Did the people around him realise that they were in the presence of a demigod? He liked that he could use his powers to influence people, even if his actions weren’t contributing to the completion of the Script. More than anything, he liked looking through the faces of the people he met, looking for his father.

  Though he had not seen his father since he was a child, he was sure that he would recognise him by appearance alone. He would see his father’s face and something would just click. He had refused to talk to his mother for days when she told him that his father was a mortal. Disappointment dug into him like the thorn in the paw of Amphion’s lion. It only dislodged when he realised that if his father was a mortal, he must be an important mortal, a powerful mortal—a god amongst men.

  He relived his journeys through the visions. Each time he watched a vision, he looked a little harder at the faces he encountered, but they changed and grew foggy with time. He became less and less sure about the details of the visions, whether the faces were real or if they were just something his mind had invented.

  If it were up to his mother, he would never travel to the Land of Mortals again. If it were up to her, he would never find his father.

  *

  Ever since Teymos returned, Orleigh had been playing a game. It was a
game of make-believe. Before, she used to pretend that she was a hero from one of the many books that she read. Now, she pretended that she had not found the letters in Teymos’s study or the possessions in the secret room. If she played the game well enough, Teymos would not suspect her and she would buy herself more time to uncover the truth.

  It was easier to play the game when Teymos was not around, so she kept herself as busy as possible, spending much of her time in the library. Occasionally she would find herself staring absent-mindedly towards the study, but as soon as she realised she would force her gaze back to the books, focusing intently on the passage that she was meant to be reading.

  She was only half-reading the book in her lap when the geese started to honk wildly outside. What could prompt them to cause such a commotion? She set the book down and walked to the large window that overlooked the lawn. The geese were near the gate, huddled together like an angry mob—or like the Hunters in her story as they gathered in the Great Forest, deliberating on their plan. An intruder had disturbed them, and was striding through the flock towards the house.

  The man walked with a swagger, his arms swaying, his head held high. His walk stated that he was meant to be there, but in all of Orleigh’s life on the estate Teymos had never once had a visitor. She gripped the window ledge and leant forward, trying to get a closer look so that she might figure out who he was. Teymos had not mentioned that he would be having a guest, but Teymos never spoke about his work.

  The man reached the gravel below and stopped. He looked up. Emerald green eyes pierced straight through her. Her heartbeat quickened and her face flushed pink. The man waved and flashed her a radiant smile. She ducked down out of sight, but it was too late.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Peeking through the low-hanging boughs of the orange trees, Orleigh kept an eye on the house from the orchard. Only once the visitor had left would it be safe for her to return inside. Just thinking about how he had waved at her and how, foolishly, she had hid made her blush once more.

  The goats grazed upon the grass in the orchard and they clustered around the trees. Once they had realised that Orleigh had not come outside to feed them, they paid her little attention.

  The goats nearest the house pricked their ears and set off in a trot towards the kitchen door, shortly followed by the rest of the herd.

  The man had left the house, but instead of walking away from the estate as she had hoped he would, he was heading towards the orchard. To the goats, he was nothing more than another potential provider of food, but just as he had paid no attention to the geese when he arrived at the estate, he stepped straight through the throng of goats unperturbed.

  Orleigh’s gaze darted to the nearest orange tree. If she ducked behind it, he might not be able to see her. But the only thing more foolish than hiding from him once was hiding from him for a second time. Besides, from the way that he had raised his hand in greeting, he must have already spotted her.

  “Hello,” the man said. His pace slowed to a saunter. “Are you Orleigh?”

  “Yes,” she said, and stepped out from behind the boughs. Her hands clasped one another behind her back. “Who are you?”

  “My name’s Beighlen,” he said. “I came to see Teymos. He suggested that I should introduce myself.”

  Up close he looked younger, perhaps only a few years older than herself. He wore his confidence like a mask, projecting the image of a fully-fledged adult, but glimmers of youth snuck through the gaps. When she did not reply, he ran one hand through his light brown hair, ruffling the auburn and gold highlights, and gripped the back of his neck. His mask had lapsed, letting through a ray of nervousness.

  She extended her hand to him. “It’s nice to meet you, Beighlen.”

  “Nice to meet you, Orleigh.” He smiled as he took her hand, holding it only briefly. “Teymos told me that you’ve lived here a while. I’ve never been here before.”

  She nodded. “Teymos never has visitors.”

  She wanted to ask what had changed, why had Teymos suddenly decided to invite someone to his home, but she pursed her lips and fell back into silence. Her prying might have prompted this development, Teymos might have invited Beighlen there to talk to her, to find out what she knew, just like when the Hunters sent a spy to infiltrate the Guardians. Or perhaps she had read too many myths and Beighlen’s motives were genuine.

  “Could you show me around?” he asked. His hand had found his hair again and streaks of gold caught the sunlight as his fingers combed through the tousled strands. “I’ve always wanted to see Teymos’s home.”

  She hesitated, but finding no reason to refuse, then nodded. “I guess so.” She tilted her head towards the far side of the orchard. “We’ll go this way.”

  They strolled side by side through the trees, winding their way between the boughs. The goats looked up and bleated as they passed, but did not bother them. She pointed out the different types of tree that were present, but said little else. Beighlen’s frequent glances prickled over her skin, running up her arms, through her neck and blossoming into a blush on her cheeks. She turned her head away, her long curls falling like a veil between them.

  When they reached the lawn, Beighlen cleared his throat. “So,” he said, the word dragging out more than its natural length. “Teymos told me that you came from the Land of Mortals.”

  “Yes. I did,” she said, “But I’ve been here most of my life.”

  “Do you miss it?” he asked and he stopped walking.

  She stopped too and turned to look at him, her eyes squinting in the sunlight. “I guess,” she said with a forced shrug. “But it’s not like I can go back.” She added quickly, “And I’m happy here anyway.”

  “Why can’t you go back?” he asked. “What’s stopping you?” He spoke with the tone of someone who has always gotten his own way, as if he could not fathom the idea that the Script was not as permissive to everyone else.

  She took a step backwards towards the hedge. The vines slithered out from the grass, winding their way around her feet and ankles, finding a snug grasp. Beighlen’s eyes widened and he stumbled back a pace.

  “They’re for my safety,” she told him, just as Teymos had told her. “I’m a mortal, so I can’t travel freely in the Land of Gods like you. The vines keep me here, on the estate, away from the creatures in the Great Forest.”

  Beighlen knelt down to examine the vines. From above, his golden highlights looked like shooting stars. He gripped one of the shoots between his thumbs and forefingers. “What happens if you break them?” He looked up at her with a youthful curiosity and, for a moment, his eyes were Piprin’s eyes.

  “They heal,” she said.

  Beighlen tore the strand in two, letting go of the broken ends. The frayed edges hung in mid-air, as if stunned by their own vulnerability, and then leapt towards one another again, the gap between them sealing until there was no trace of a split. He shook his head, leaning in closer to inspect the vine.

  “Don’t you feel trapped?” he said. He frowned, his face ploughed with concern. Someone with his freedom probably couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be confined to one place.

  She stepped away from the hedge, freeing herself from the grip of the vines. “No,” she said. “There’s nowhere else for me to go. My home was destroyed and all my family and friends have gone, so there’s nothing left for me elsewhere.”

  Absorbed in his silence, Beighlen looked to the ground, avoiding her eye. His hand drifted up to massage his neck, and he shifted from one foot to the other. “I didn’t realise your family had…” he said, but trailed off.

  “Died?” she finished the sentence for him. “It’s fine to say it.”

  She walked past him and headed towards the fountain. A quick glance over her shoulder showed him to be following only a few steps behind. She led the way through the dark roses and sat down by the edge of the w
ater.

  “So,” Beighlen said, a blunt exhalation that cut through the silence. “What happened to your family? How did they die?”

  “There was a fire in my village,” she said. Her fingers curled over the edge of the stone. “Everyone else died except for me. My father, my friends.” Teymos’s voice echoed through her. She stopped, swallowing down his words and filling her stomach with discomfort.

  “My mother died before that though,” she steered the conversation away from the fire and her suspicions, back to a more certain truth. “She died when I was born.”

  “I’m sorry,” Beighlen said, but she shook her head—she did not need pity.

  “Is it strange that I miss her even though I never met her?” she asked.

  “No, I don’t think so,” he said. “I miss my father, but I never really knew him. My mother left him when I was only young. We moved back to the Land of Gods and I haven’t seen him since.”

  “Oh, so your father’s mortal?” she asked, her voice lifting in surprise. “I assumed that you were a full immortal, not just a demigod.” It was the way that he held himself, like a peacock on parade, that she associated with the gods. In the myths, demigods behaved more demurely.

  Beighlen’s strong jaw jutted out and he sucked in his cheeks, emphasising his already prominent cheekbones. “Yes, well,” he was quick to reply, “He must be an important mortal, a very important mortal. And I’m more god than mortal anyway.”

  “How so?” she frowned.

  “Well I’ve spent all my life around gods, living in the Land of Gods,” he said, gesturing to the grounds around them with a broad sweep of his hand. “Besides, it’s not like I’m the son of some minor goddess.”