Chapter 23 — Rhiannon
Different packs consult their seers in different places depending on their reverence and importance in the culture. I’ve even heard that the Alpha King built a temple for his clutch of Royal Seers.
Ours is a circular room in a quiet area of the fortress. Personally, I’ve only been on the outside of this room, guarding Xander or Luna Thea while they commune with the seers. I’ve never really had a reason to go inside until now.
The chamber sprawls before me, vast and much larger than it appears from the outside. The stone walls gleam, polished to a sleek finish that mirrors the clarity of glass. Every surface radiates a coolness, yet the room itself isn’t cold.
A circle of deep blue cushions surrounds a still pool at the chamber’s center.
Five seers sit cross-legged on them, eyes closed in meditation.
Above, cut glass triangles form an intricate mosaic across the ceiling, each piece catching sunlight and casting it downward.
Prisms of light scatter across the water’s surface, transforming the pool into a liquid array of stars.
And there is complete silence. Complete. No sound of wind outside or even noise from the halls penetrates the chamber. It’s as though I’m standing in a void.
One of the seers lifts his head. I recognize him immediately. The head seer, Mahal. He is very pale, with hair as dark as his robes and gaunt features. He stands slowly and walks over to me.
“Commander,” he says, inclining his head as if completing a rite. “The Hall receives you. Speak what you seek.”
I hesitate to respond at first. Talking feels sacrilegious somehow. “I was hoping you could help with an investigation I’m conducting. I assume the Alpha has been keeping you informed of what’s happening with the summit.”
“The Alpha has not sought our counsel in days.” Mahal’s voice is low, almost reverberant. “However, the Hall does not sleep. We know of the violence, and of your wound. Does the flesh mend?”
I nod. “Yes, Olcan says I should be fully healed in a few hours.”
“Then the Moon grants you swift mending.”
“Unfortunately, two of our Shaman visitors have been more seriously injured. They say that one of our own was responsible.”
Mahal’s gaze stills. “Blood within the walls is never only blood.”
“Yes, I’ve been investigating the matter. Have you or the others seen a clue that might lead us in the right direction?”
Mahal goes quiet, as if listening to a voice beyond the room. “Perhaps. Remain.”
He leaves through a door on the other side of the chamber and returns moments later with a worn notebook.
“A sign has been repeating.” He cracks open the notebook and flips through the pages, searching for a particular entry. “It came rarely at first. Now, it returns as if insisting.”
“Is it an object or a specific individual?”
“No, it’s this.” He points to the drawing in the notebook. “Blackroot.”
“Like the herb for tea?”
“Yes. All five of us have seen it, again and again. When a symbol repeats, it must be recorded. Nothing is granted to us twice without reason.”
He extends the notebook to me for a better view. It appears to be a journal of their visions. On the page are several handwritten passages followed by drawings of Blackroot in different stages. In some, it’s flowering, while in others it’s nearly dried up and crushed.
Fifth of Brightmore: Seer Leal finds a patch of Blackroot growing just outside of the Kortan walls.
Twentieth of Brightmore: Seer Mete sees a young whelp carrying a basket of Blackroot through the market. His hair is on fire.
Sixth of Harvesta: Seer Talon witnesses a young whelp kneeling before the Alpha, offering a bushel of Blackroot as a gift.
I skim through the next few pages, and just as Mahal said, the visions occur more and more frequently. In just the past few days, the herb has surfaced in the seers’ visions nearly every hour.
This is interesting and all, but . . .
I glance up at Mahal. “I’m sorry, I don’t see what this has to do with anything.”
“Not yet, perhaps,” he says, pulling the journal back to him as though it were sacred. “The meaning is veiled, but the veil itself is a warning.”
All I can do is nod. Conan was right. This suddenly feels like a wild goose chase. “Well, as ominous as that is, I don’t think these visions are related to my investigation. I’m looking into attacks, not recipes.”
His mouth slightly moves. It might be amusement, or pity. “Commander, no vision is small. Only our courage is.”
No response comes to mind that won’t come off as disrespectful. “Of course. Well, I appreciate your time anyway.”
As I begin turning toward the door, Mahal regards me with a little tilt of his head.
“Tell me, Commander, has your heart quieted since the Alpha’s bond was named?”
Heat flares up in my cheeks. Every part of me goes still. I’ve never spoken to Mahal about my situation with Xander. Of course he would know, but why would he ask?
Suddenly, I am very uncomfortable. I manage to clear my throat and look back at him. “I am faring just fine. Thank you.”
“Do not mistake a closed door for exile,” Mahal says. “The Moon does not take. She turns. What you wanted is not always what you are meant to face.”
This isn’t a conversation I planned to have and I take it as my cue to leave. “It’s Her way, after all. I trust Her will.”
“Indeed.” Mahal’s voice drifts, no longer quite his own. “Do not spend hope like a coin. The Moon has already marked what is yours. In his gaze, you become iridescence, like light through shattered glass.”
Every muscle in my body locks. Is he talking about my fated mate?
“He is near, close enough to breathe the same air,” Mahal says, his eyes unfocused. “His wolf has already bowed to yours. The mind will be the last to kneel.”
His wolf? My heart pounds against my ribs, sending a pulsing sting through my wound. Someone in my pack is my fated mate. That possibility sends my thoughts spiraling.
“The bond will reveal itself when the time is right.”
But, Ethan. . .
The thought of him tears through my mind. If the Moon Goddess has truly chosen someone for me, a Lycan in Kortan, then whatever it is that I have with Ethan was doomed from the beginning. I’ve been fooling myself, letting my heart lead me toward yet another impossible future.
Panic claws at my chest. I need air. Space. Time to think.
“I have to go. Thank you again for your time,” I manage, backing toward the door before Mahal can say anything else that might crack what’s left of my composure.
The door closes behind me with finality, sealing away both answers and questions I’m not ready to face.