Lord Allaran stood at the window, staring down at the small, black carriage as it arrived, the two brown horses soaked from the rain, their hides steaming as they stopped before his manor. Demmois, his butler, hurried down the wide front steps to meet the young man who stepped out of the carriage, his blond head uncovered, heedless of the downpour. Allaran watched the two men converse for a moment, then Demmois motioned toward the manor. The young man glanced up, his gaze seeming to linger on Allaran at the window.
Though he couldn’t see from that distance, Allaran knew the young man’s eyes would be green, his hands elegant, his back unmarked by whip or cane. He would scream when struck, his soft skin unused to pain. Not the sort that Allaran usually took as an apprentice, but he would take him anyway. He’d already seen it happen.
Moving away from the window, Allaran took a seat to wait for the young man, sipping from a cup of herbal tea as he stared into the flames dancing in the hearth. One might think there was no point to being a seer if one could not change future events as they saw fit, like denying an unsuitable apprentice before investing months or years into them. The truth was, he could have changed it. He could have denied him an interview, or told Demmois to send him away, but as all seers eventually learned, it was better to know the future and be prepared for it, then to change the future and be blindsided.
Setting down his tea as Demmois knocked upon the study door, Allaran rose to his feet. “Come,” he said. The door opened and Allaran stepped forward, only to stop short as the young man entered the room. The visions had not done him justice, or perhaps Allaran had not been paying attention. Either way, he found himself staring into deep, dark green eyes fringed by long lashes. The young man’s soft, fair skin, only a detriment in Allaran’s mind, was pinked by the cold rain, his wide, full lips glistening as he nervously moistened them with his tongue.
“Lord Allaran,” the young man said, bowing stiffly, “I am Carisel Theron. Thank you for granting me this audience.”
“Welcome, Mr. Theron,” Allaran said, pulling himself together and gesturing toward a second, empty chair. “Please, have a seat.”
“Thank you, Lord Allaran.”
When they were both seated, Allaran picked up his cup of tea again. “May I offer you some refreshment? Water, tea, wine?”
“Water, if it’s not too much trouble,” Mr. Theron said.
“No trouble,” Allaran said. “Demmois, if you would?”
“Yes, M’Lord,” Demmois said, bowing before exiting the study.
Allaran glanced over at the young man again. How could he not have noticed how beautiful he was? Allaran cleared his throat. “So, Mr. Theron, why do you believe you have the power of sight?” Some referred to it as a gift, others a curse; Allaran saw it as neither, or perhaps both.
“Well, last year I was riding my horse through my father’s fields when she was spooked by a pheasant,” Mr. Theron said. “She threw me and I broke my arm. The pain was unlike anything I’d ever felt, and then…it was like I left my body. I couldn’t feel the pain anymore, I couldn’t feel anything. But I could see and hear. I was suddenly sanding before my father’s manor and it was burning, flames roaring and smoke billowing up into the sky.”
He fell silent, glancing over as Demmois returned and set a glass of ice water on the marble topped table beside him. “Thank you,” he said before returning to his story. “The vision only lasted a few moments, I think, and then I was back on the ground in agony. I managed to get up and I rushed home, certain that the house was on fire, but when I got there, everything was fine. My arm was tended to and I forgot about the vision.
“A month later, the manor burned to the ground while we were visiting relatives.” He picked up his glass of water and took a sip, his eyes downcast.
“And that’s when you began to suspect you were a seer?” Allaran asked.
“Yes, M’Lord.”
“Mr. Theron,” Allaran said, setting his tea back down, “you do realize that there is only one way to test your abilities, don’t you?”
His fair skin paling to a pallid white, Mr. Theron nodded and swallowed hard. “Yes, Lord Allaran.”
“Then I see no point in making further conversation,” Allaran said, rising from his chair and leaving the young man to scramble to his feet and follow after him, with Demmois bringing up the rear. Allaran led them up a twisting flight of stairs to a small, secluded room with thick walls and no windows, a shiny brass pulley hanging ominously from the main ceiling beam.
“Before we begin,” Allaran said, taking off his long, velvet jacket and handing it to Demmois, “you need to be aware of what is in store for you, Mr. Theron.” He slipped out of his silk vest and busied himself with the tiny pearl buttons on his long-sleeved shirt, watching the way Mr. Theron glanced about the room, eyeing the rope dangling from the pulley, the end tied to a pair of old, iron manacles.
“Forgive my ignorance, M’Lord,” Mr. Theron asked after a moment, “but isn’t this something you choose to do? Why are restraints needed?”
“It’s one thing to choose to put your hand into a flame, Mr. Theron,” Allaran said, shrugging out of his shirt. “It’s another to hold it there while your flesh burns.” He handed the shirt to Demmois, who carried them away to a cupboard where they would be safe from blood spatter. “Your body reacts to pain by trying to escape it. When that fails, it released chemicals in your brain. In most people, these chemicals serve to mask the pain, as another form of escape. For seers, the chemicals send us into a trance where we are receptive to visions.”
Demmois returned and Allaran stepped over beneath the pulley, turning his back to the room as he allowed his butler to secure the manacles around his wrists. Behind him, he heard Mr. Theron gasp, no doubt at the layers of thin, silvered lash scars on his back, fresh cuts and bruises on top of them.
“What would you have me see, Mr. Theron?” Allaran asked as Demmois cranked on the rope, raising his hands above his head. “Give me a place, a time, a person–so that you may have an accurate demonstration.”
“Oh, uh…My mother,” Mr. Theron said. “Can you tell me what she’s doing?”
“Right now?”
“If it pleases you, M’Lord, yes.”
“Very well. Demmois, you may begin.”
“Yes, M’Lord,” said his butler, a reluctance in his tone. Allaran knew he hard doing this, but he was far too dedicated a servant to refuse. Allaran heard the thin leather lash whistle through the air, his shoulders tensing in anticipation of the stinging blow, but it didn’t stop the breath catching in his throat. He flinched as a second, then a third strike came, and a strangled cry escaped from between his teeth as the fourth and fifth came in quick succession. After that, he stopped counting, his mind focusing on Mr. Theron’s mother, wherever she was, whatever she was doing, the pain like a fire dancing over his skin.
A hush settled over Allaran, a calm stillness that filled him, carrying him like a feather on the breast of a bird. He was soaring over the countryside, passing one village after the next, then over a great city and past a wide lake, to a large house nestled back among a grove of aspen trees, the day’s washing out upon a line. Allaran drifted inside the house, into the kitchen, where a woman of middling years was preparing a roast, her fair hair tied back under a blue scarf, the sleeves of her blouse rolled up past her elbows.
As she worked, she sang to herself,
“Riding the south wind
Over the sea
See the dragons
Wild and free
Scales of blue
As dark as night
Red as blood
Green, gold, and white
Watch them dive
Into the sea
Riding the waves
Wild and free.“
Allaran gasped, the vision crumbling around him, leaving him writhing at the end of the rope, the lash cutting into his skin.
“Enough!” he shouted. “Enough!”
“Yes, M’Lord,” Demmois said, and though the whipping stopped, the pain remained, burning and throbbing. Allaran could feel himself shaking as he fought to catch his breath, blood trickling down his back. He flinched, crying out as Demmois pressed a clean cloth to his back to stem the bleeding. After a moment, Demmois let the slack back into the rope and Allaran staggered as he suddenly found himself wholly responsible for standing.
Mr. Theron took a step toward him, but Demmois grabbed him by the arm, pulling him back.
“Begging your pardon, sir,” he said, “but you can’t touch him.”
Allaran glanced over at the young man, ashen faced as he watched Demmois carefully release the manacles. His legs leaden, Allaran dragged his feet, shuffling the few steps over to a nearby stool and sinking down onto the hard wood. It was several minutes before Allaran could force a coherent thought from his mind to his mouth.
“Thank you, Demmois,” he said, he speech still a little slurred. “You may go now.” His butler bowed and fled the room. Allaran regarded Mr. Theron, the young man staring at the bloodied lash, laying upon the floor where Demmois had dropped it.
“She was preparing dinner,” Allaran said, making Mr. Theron jump. “A roast. She had a blue scarf over her hair and was singing a song.” He did his best to remember the words, Mr. Theron nodding and smiling as he recited them.
“That’s the Dragon’s Lullaby,” he said. “She used to sing that to me when I was little, and I bought her that scarf for her birthday last year. Thank you, M’Lord.” He sobered. “If I may ask, why am I not allowed to touch you?”
“Not you,” Allaran said, wincing as he reached over his shoulder and pulled away the cloth before the blood had a chance to adhere it to the wounds. “In the aftermath of a trance, I can’t abide being touched. My body is so receptive to stimuli, physical contact is unbearable. It only takes a few minutes to return to normal, though.” He took a bracing breath and stood up. “Everyone reacts differently, of course,” he said, stepping over to the lash and picking it up. He wiped the blood off on the cloth in his hand. “You training will proceed slowly and with much attention to your aftercare until we know how you will react. Now, take off your shirt.”
“Now?” Mr. Theron asked, taking a step back, his gaze darting to the lash in Allaran’s hand.
“Yes, now. You need to be able to make an informed decision, and since I have the feeling you’ve never felt the sting of the lash, you need to before you can decide if you want to be my apprentice. A seer cannot fear pain, Mr. Theron.”
“I’m not afraid,” the young man said stiffly as he began unbuttoning his simple cotton shirt. “I just wasn’t expecting this to be part of the interview.” He shrugged out of his shirt and turned his back, wringing the cloth in both hands as he waited.
“Prepare yourself,” Allaran said and he swung the lash with all his strength, the leather slicing through that fair, flawless skin and drawing a long, thin line of blood. Mr. Theron yelped and leaped nearly a foot off the floor, his body contorting with pain as it sought escape. Allaran wiped the lash clean again and hung it back upon its hook. He would properly wash and oil the leather later to keep it supple.
Mr. Theron gasped, short, quick breaths that made his whole body shake. Allaran watched him closely, though one lash was usually not enough to trigger a response. The young man flushed, a sheen of sweat appearing on his brow, and his hand trembled as he reached up and wiped it away.
“Will that be all, Lord Allaran?” he asked, his voice tight. “Do I have your permission to request to be your apprentice?”
“Not yet,” Allaran said and Mr. Theron frowned. Allaran waited, a part of him hoping the young man had had enough, that he would withdraw his request and leave, but Mr. Theron just frowned and said nothing. “I would like for you to stay a few days as my guest, Mr. Theron. I will be available to you at all times should you have questions. Demmois is having a room prepared for you and I have asked Esrik, one of my slaves, to see to your needs. He is a bright and obedient young man, and I would suggest you have him draw you a bath and tend to that wound on your back.”
“Thank you, Lord Allaran,” Mr. Theron said with a stiff bow. “You are most generous.”
“You are welcome, Mr. Theron,” Allaran said, and he headed down the stairs, wondering, for the first time in years, if his vision had been wrong. Under normal circumstances, Allaran would have stopped Mr. Theron at the door and told him to be on his way. The vision was the only thing allowing this to progress toward what Allaran suspected would be an unfortunate and unavoidable conclusion.