by Brandon Barr
Tradition? What did Valcere know of tradition? She could have brought up a handful of exceptions to that tradition, but she sensed doing so would be throwing more meat to a tiger.
Meluscia bowed her head slightly. “Very well. Thank you.”
She turned to leave, her mind already plotting a trip to the Verdlands, determined now to undermine the animosity between the Hold and King Feaor. Valcere could enjoy his throne of onyx. All the while, she would go out and cause an uproar.
“You haven’t been dismissed,” shouted Valcere.
The room grew absolutely still, except for Meluscia, who slowly turned to face the fool on her father’s throne. She was well aware of the jaded expression fixed on her face. Her eyes met Valcere’s.
She waited for another insult, her own ready to fly from her tongue.
“This young woman may be the daughter of the Luminar, but she is much more than that. She also carries the title of traitor!”
Meluscia’s bravado melted in an instant as fear swept over her. Her letter to King Feaor—had he somehow found it out?
Valcere continued, “Meluscia tried to alter her father’s choice for the throne. She did so by attempting to influence the vote of the Regents’ council. I’ll not name the Regent who tried to aid her in this, but the two met in secret, against every protocol.”
“Bite your tongue, Valcere!” shouted a woman from the back of the hall. “How dare you call her a traitor!”
Meluscia spun, her eyes finding the face behind the familiar voice. Beloved Mairena, the kitchen matron.
The old woman continued her dangerous outburst. “You, Valcere, are the one who uses the soldiers under you to eavesdrop all about the Hold. If Meluscia’s a traitor, then you are that, plus a scoundrel, on top! Protocol—bah!”
A few quick cheers sounded around the room. Valcere’s head swung back and forth, seeking out the culprits, but all had been swift and sly.
Meluscia, fearing Valcere’s wrath lay on Mairena, spoke quickly. “I broke protocol, yes, but I didn’t do so simply to gain the throne. I’ve said this to my father, and I’ll say it here to your face. The people of the Verdlands are not our enemies. Neither is King Feaor. Our enemy is the abominations coming out of the wastelands from Praelothia. Isolaug, the damned Beast, he is our one and only enemy.”
“Fool girl,” snapped Valcere. “What are a few Nightmare raiding parties compared to the entire army of the Verdlands? The Nightmares are only an annoyance. Mere outcasts and scavengers from Praelothia. What have they done in the past hundred years? Prick us and run. We do not have men enough to spare for such random acts. If we move our forces from the Verdlands’ borders, we give them opportunity to overwhelm us, cut off our supply chains. They might starve us until we begged terms of surrender. Or perhaps you would approve of this?”
Rivdon stepped forward. “Enough with the insults. Meluscia is neither a traitor nor a fool. Let her be, Valcere.”
The words of Meluscia’s longtime friend helped keep her tongue back. She thanked him with a quick glance.
Valcere’s annoyance at Rivdon’s words hung plainly on his face, but he didn’t turn, his eyes remaining on Meluscia.
“What would her father think if he knew about her secret rendezvous?” said Valcere.
To whom he directed the question, Meluscia was not certain—but she felt its sting.
“Go on your way, girl,” he said. “I’ll overlook this one treacherous act. And the unruly old crone at the back of the hall, next time she speaks as such, she’ll spend a year in the dungeon. Next time…” He shook his head, a menacing light shining in his eyes. “Next time, it will not go well.”
Meluscia held his eyes for a moment longer, then turned without another word. She walked stiffly toward the large doors at the opposite end of the hall. With effort, she held back her emotions. Everything she had dreaded was taking place.
A voice rumbled loudly behind her: “And if you come to the hall again,” called Valcere, “you’ll wait your turn with the others. Line cutting is a vice of children, not adults.”
There were a few stilted laughs. She resisted the urge to turn back and lash out, instead keeping her feet moving forward. She’d lost her place at the Hold, her apprenticeship under Katlel, and so much of her dignity under Valcere’s bristling words—she’d had enough. She wanted to turn into a bird and escape. To soar through the twisting tunnels and burst free of this cold-hearted mountain.
Unwanted tears blurred her sight.
Truly, now, she was a woman without constraints. What that would mean, her heart was just beginning to whisper to her.
SAVARAH
As Savarah watched Meluscia leave, she considered the wide range of emotions her sister held bound up inside. Savarah could pull her sister’s frustrations apart in the same way she could tear parts of a brain out of a dead girl’s head and organize them by color or shape. But the thought of imagining herself feeling what Meluscia felt was like untangling a spider’s web.
Meluscia had striven to become Luminess ever since the sunweed blight reared its unpleasant symptoms in her mother and father. She sincerely cared about the kingdom and its people. Their troubles weighed on her face and tore at her heart. It was that sensitivity that Savarah lacked which she saw gushing out of her sister, raging like a torrent, nearly uncontrolled. Forcing her to create a phantom to make love to her, when she knew she could never have affection as Luminess.
Love was intriguing and strange, completely weakening the one who embraced it. Just as her master had taught. And Savarah could see how those heartfelt emotions could be truly dangerous. How easily they could turn into something dark. Even murderous. Especially if that kind of soft, fleshy heart could ever seep its way into her own chest.
But Savarah did share one thing in common with Meluscia. Passion. That, unlike mere love alone, lent power.
Meluscia slipped through the crack in the door like a rabbit escaping a fox and disappeared. Savarah returned her attention to the front of the room. Osiiun’s eyes were on her. He sat on the bench beside Valcere. She blinked a message to him, and he responded in kind.
He would be expecting news from Orum. And with the sudden death of Aszelbor, the undercook, his keen senses would be alert to danger.
Her next two moves would be crucial.
Kill Osiiun, her master’s fiercest fighter, before the night was out. Before news spread to Harcor that Aszelbor had died.
Then she would ride like the wind.
That was the plan, at least. If word escaped to any of the spies that a traitor was on the loose, all surprise would be lost, and her mission would become infinitely more difficult.
The element of surprise had to be maintained, no matter the cost.
MELUSCIA
“You have more courage than most, Meluscia. Don’t lose heart.”
Mairena’s soothing words couldn’t chase away the shock of all that had transpired…all that would soon come to pass.
“I’m sorry,” whispered Meluscia bitterly. “I’m sorry to leave you with that man as your leader.”
She wanted to say so much more, but it would only echo her broken hopes.
I’m sorry I will not have the chance to make peace with the Verdlands. A peace I felt so certain I could achieve! I’m sorry I’ll be cast from the Hold, unable to share my food any longer. Unable to be an advocate for you and the other servants…all the good people of our realm. Our outpost villages will continue to be pillaged and burned by Nightmares. The men, women and children murdered on our borders will have no reprisals of justice done in their name.
At Meluscia’s request, Mairena departed. Meluscia needed to be alone, despite her loneliness. She’d spent so much of her life in the solitude of her mind, it was all she knew to do in times of failure.
She found a hollow in the rock passageway that was shadowed from the petitioners who occasionally passed along the western tunnel leading to the throne room. Her rapid breaths caught in the cold evening ai
r, then disappeared. A vague pulse shook her vision as each heartbeat pounded in her throat.
Two soldiers walked by the opening of the hollow, unaware of her watching eyes. She looked at each face as it came and went. The desperation she felt now was immense. The voices of her inner life, both fearful and strong, fought for a response.
What do I do now?
You’re going to the Verdlands. You have to fight.
How do I fight?
You’ll find a way. You have to help your people, and the Verdlands.
I’ll be alone.
That’s nothing new.
The shadows cast by the sparse torchlight flickered like dying embers against the walls before her. Servants passed, faces briefly illumined before disappearing like ghosts into the dark.
A man neared her rock hollow, his face intimately familiar.
Mica.
In an instant, the fire burning inside changed, as if a crosswind had suddenly assaulted it. Now the flames raged, uncontrolled, in a new direction.
The fire was desperate for strength, full of longing.
She took a step out from her hollow and grasped Mica by the arm before he passed. He turned in surprise, then his eyes caught her own, lit by the light of the torches. She drew him toward her with a light tug, back into the darkness. Quickly her hands slid around his back.
A sob shook her, and she began to cry lightly on his shoulder. Her confusion and anger were swept away as his arms came around her.
“My Lady, are you alright?” he asked, his tone caught between formality and the intimacy of her body so close to his own.
She said nothing for a time, relishing the strength of Mica’s arms enfolding her. In his warmth her crying quieted.
“No,” she finally whispered. “I’m not alright. I need something from you.”
A short moment passed before he asked, “What is it, My Lady?”
She lifted her face to his, their breathing mingling, lips ever so close to touching. Her silence and the hidden space they stood in made plain her desires.
His hand briefly touched the side of her face, then slid to the back of her head where his fingers ran through her hair. Every stroke of his fingers brought life and fire into her blood.
His scent filled each breath she took, his lips hovering so near. Moving closer, slow, hesitant. She ached for the culmination of their touch.
Mica’s movement toward her paused, then he whispered, “My Lady, I can’t.”
“It can be our secret,” she heard herself whisper. “No one will ever know.”
In the quiet, his hand moved up her back. His lips again poised on the verge of touching her own. She wanted to spring at them. Slowly, he drew back.
“I’m sorry, My Lady.” She heard him breathe deeply. “I must go. I have an urgent message for your father in the throne room.”
Her heart sank at his words, but her hunger did not abate. She pressed her palms against his solid back, letting him know she was not yet dissuaded.
“Can it not wait but a moment?” she asked softly, her fingertips digging lightly against his rough shirt.
He hesitated only briefly. “No. I should go…”
She slid her hands to rest on his hips, no longer hemming him in. “You’ll not find my father in the throne room,” said Meluscia, her thin voice springing from wound upon wound. “He is sick in bed. Valcere sits in his stead.”
Mica’s hands squeezed lightly where they rested on her side. “I’m sorry to hear that. Truly.”
He stepped back into the torchlight, making to leave.
“What is your urgent message?” she asked.
“A Nightmare attack, here at the Hold.”
The words froze her.
“At the Hold? Where?”
“Your father’s back paddock. The royal horses. A night watchman was killed.”
She shuddered, a chill racing the length of her body. “Go,” she said. “Tell Valcere.”
“Yes, My Lady,” he said, delaying only a moment to hold her gaze before turning down the corridor.
She watched him rush away, her emotions in chaos. When he disappeared out of sight, she turned in the direction he had come.
A Nightmare…here?
As she walked, she sensed something had changed. The familiar corridor no longer felt safe, the spaces between lit torches full of ominous shadows.
One thing was now certain in her mind: her trip to the Verdlands was more pressing than ever. Her father’s will, and Valcere’s wrath, be damned.
Reconciliation between her people and the Verdlands was possible—she felt certain of it.
She had to try to be Monaiella, to break down borders erected in men and women’s hearts. Even if it meant a dungeon would be her ultimate home.
What did it matter? What did home even mean to her now?
As she made the long trip to the lower plateau where the royal horses were kept, her thoughts returned to what had just transpired between her and Mica. He had wanted her. But he had also hesitated. Why?
She sensed the answer. It was more than just the urgent message he’d needed to deliver. His desire for her had been strong. She had felt it. But something had overcome it. Her name was Praseme. And he loved her.
Inside, the flames of desire were now only smoldering cinders. Soon she would leave the Hold. Soon her former life would be cut off from her. After she set out to the Verdlands, it might never be safe to come to the Hold again. Her future swirled before her, mysterious and dark.
She had needed Mica, now, more than ever.
If only he would have kissed her. A few moments of blissful surrender, his body against hers, the sensual touch of his lips in motion with her own…it would have been just what her soul craved. His kisses drawing out of her a faith in herself. Infusing strength and confidence.
Her imagination blew on the dying embers, stoking them into a small flame.
Somehow the fire had to be satisfied.
This was her last chance to…
She stopped. Her hands pressed against her chest, her fingertips channeling the pulsing within.
My last chance to do what?
Thank you for reading Rise of the Seer, by Brandon Barr.
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The story continues in
BOOK TWO
The Bridge Beyond Her World
Winter and Aven are thrown into a world of danger amongst the advanced Guardians while Meluscia and Savarah find themselves pushed mentally and physically to the edge of life and sanity.
The epic adventure continues on the worlds of Loam and Hearth.
Grab your copy on Amazon!
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank the entire Restoration Writer’s Group: especially Delaney Walnofer, Aimee Walnofer, and Sarah Christison. And also a thank you to my beta reading team, as well as Amanda Barr, Mike Lynch, J.W. Wartick and Crista Herr. And last but not least, my excellent editor, Holly Lorincz.
-Brandon Barr, 2018
Copyright © Brandon Barr
All rights reserved
Cover Art by
Deranged Doctor Designs
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
