By Amanda Wray

 

Prologue

 

            The woman made her way laboriously up the mountain slope. Soot and grimy sweat matted her reddish hair, weighing down her curls and making them cling to her forehead. Her long skirts drug at her progress. Damp with her sweat, they clung to her legs and stuck to her thighs, although she tried with one hand to hold them up out of the way. Climbing was difficult this way, and painstakingly slow, although the mountain was not terribly steep, not yet.

            The redstone crags and outcroppings were hot to the touch under the baking desert sun, but offered good hand holds with which she pulled herself, one handed, ever higher and higher. She afforded herself little rest, even after her journey across the desert below. Rest was a luxury she could do without, must do without. Time was of the essence, she told herself. Even so, it was of necessity that she stopped to rest for a minute or two, every hundred feet or so in her climb. Her bone-weary fatigue required it; the purple and green spots floating before her eyes required it.

            Realizing the effects of the sun, she paused in her climb to wet a piece of cloth with what little precious water she could spare, and tied the damp material around her temples. With a grim determination, she began her haul anew.

            Looking up, she could just begin to discern where the steep crags above her ended in a flat topped plateau, about half way up this small peak. Hope and excitement and trepidation washed through her. This was her destination. Here she would find an answer, perhaps help. It was also her last resort. The Lord knew, she would not be here were it not her last resort.

            The surge of emotion brought new strength, and dropping her damp skirts, she pulled herself hand over hand towards that flat-topped peak, forcing her legs to work despite the heavy, sweatsoaked skirts twisting around them. Higher, higher. She had to reach that flat, rock plain. She had to. She could feel eyes watching her now, as she got closer; a sharp prickle grew between her shoulder blades at their invisible stares. Movement in the shadows overhead turned the prickle into a fierce itch.

            She forced herself onward, upward. She had to get there herself, she knew. It was part of the precepts. The rules were simple: a querant would be helped only if she came unaided, alone, without weapons, and she could receive no aid until she reached that plateau: Questioner's Circle, it was called. Whether it was a circle or not, she did not know. People rarely talked of their visits here, to the Seekers, as these mountain folk called themselves. She thought it might even be forbidden to speak of what transpired on that flat peak, so little real information had she been able to glean. Rumors, however, abounded about the Seekers. No one came here if there was any other recourse, and never more than once. That, too, the precepts forbid.

            Her throat was parched, the cloth around her temples damp now only with her own sweat, and even that drying. There was simply not enough water left in her body for sweat.

            The purple and green spots appeared again, despite her efforts at blinking them away. Up, up... She forced her knotting muscles to work, forced her slippery hands to find holds... slippery with blood, she realized from her dim purple-green haze. The sharp rocks had torn the tender flesh of her palms. Now, dimly, she became aware of the stinging, burning pain in her hands.

            It was almost a surprise when her head and arms popped over the edge of the plateau. Dim relief that there was nothing more to climb washed over her, turning her muscles to jelly, and she almost lost her grip and fell before she realized that she had yet to pull herself all the way to safety. She tried to force her liquid limbs to work, tried to pull herself all the way up, but blue-green waves rolled over her vision and her consciousness with alarming force.

            As blackness rolled in, pale arms grabbed her sun-darkened ones, and hauled her like a sack of potatoes onto the plateau. Trying to blink away the blackness, she peered up at her benefactors. Four sets of pale blue eyes peered into her green ones, four pale-haired heads bent over her red-gold curls. Spindly arms, with delicate, long fingered hands pulled her to her feet with surprising force, yet not ungently.

            She found herself looking face to face with one of them, one of the Seekers: Large pale blue eyes, small nose, thin line of a mouth, the face framed by straight, pale hair, almost white. She found herself wondering at the gender of this, the first Seeker she had ever seen. It was surprisingly difficult to tell. The face and hands were delicate and thin, not without a sense of beauty for all their strangeness. There was a lack of body hair on the face and what was exposed of hands and arms; delicate eyelashes and eyebrows seemed to be the extent of that hair, except for the fine mat of pale hair that adorned the head and spilled down the back. The bulky white robe the Seeker wore only served to heighten the mystery of gender.

            The three other Seekers had already turned away from the cliff face, their backs to her. They all wore white robes, long and flowing, with deep hoods pulled up over their heads. Perhaps such clothing was the reason these people remained so pale, untouched by the sun. Perhaps. There were many things about the Seekers that were a mystery.

            "We have been expecting you," the Seeker in front of her said. It was a soft, decidedly feminine voice. "Follow, and we will lead you to a safe place where you may rest and we shall discuss matters that are of importance to us." This speech seemed long for her, and she formed the words carefully, as if unsure of the language, or as though she had not spoken in a very long while and the words seemed strange coming from her mouth. Her blue eyes narrowed in a lazy squint, and then she prompted, "Come, Helena of House Al Dakar, come."

            Helena started at hearing her own name spoken by the Seeker, but the Seeker gave no notice, only turned and draped the cowl of her robe over her head and started across the plateau. How had she known? Helena wondered, but hastily quickened her step to follow.

            The plateau -- Questioner's Circle -- was a vast, open space that did indeedd form a rough circle, surrounded on three sides by mountainous slopes extending ever upwards into the slate-colored sky. The ground that Helena walked over was not smooth, but pitted and pockmarked with craters. Some -- most-- were tiny pinpricks in the red rocks, but some were deep holes. These the Seekers avoided with deft steps, and Helena imitated them.

            Off to the left came the sound of braying sheep, so faint at first that Helena thought the dry and dusty wind must be playing tricks on her. Yet the sound persisted, and Helena peered off to her left in consternation. In that direction, the plateau ended several hundred yards off in the steep face of the redstone cliffs. Certainly no place to hide sheep, even if there were enough vegetation on the rocky slopes to support them. There was vegetation on the slopes, but Helena could not imagine that the prickly, spiky, brown shoots would appeal even to a sheep's palate.

            Looking closely at the shadowy slopes leading up from Questioner's Circle, Helena realized that some of those deep shadows -- most of them, in fact -- were not shadows at all, but openings into the cliff face. So that was where the Seekers made their homes, she mused. That still did not solve the mystery of where the sheep were kept, though. Rumors abounded on the plains, rumors about the Seekers. One of the less harsh rumors was that they stole sheep and other farm animals from the various Houses and plantations. Helena wondered, were she to come across these sheep of the Seekers', if any of them would bear the notched ear that marked them as members of House Al Dakar's flock. Certainly enough sheep had disappeared from the flock over the years to make her suspicion a real one. Helena shivered despite the heavy heat.

            The Seekers came to a stop at the far end of Questioner's Circle, where the ground sloped down and was shadowed by a rock overhang, forming a sort of cave about one hundred feet in diameter. A smoky haze hung in the air, and bluish grey tendrils rose from where wax candles burned around the perimeter, filling the air with sickly sweet incense.

            Other Seekrs waited there, sitting cross-legged on the stone ground, spaced evenly around the perimeter. One and all gazed up at Helena with the same pale blue eyes from beneath deep white hoods. Helena could not place a gender to any of them.

            The four Seekers who had provided her escort turned to take seats along with the others. Helena, uncertain of the rules here and not wishing to offend, carefully lowered herself to her knees in front of the assemblage, head bowed in a gesture of proper obsequiousness.

            The motion seemed an appropriate one, for the Seeker sitting in the center of the semi-circle around her turned and proceeded to fill a clay bowl with a reddish watery substance from a pitcher made from the same heavy red clay. This Seeker, whom Helena decided was the leader, sipped from the clay bowl before passing it to the man -- woman? -- sitting next in line around the circle.

            Helena kept her eyes fixed on the Seeker in front of her as the clay bowl was passed along the semi-circle, with each Seeker taking a drink of the red liquid. Helena tried not to think about what that red liquid might be. Wine, she told herself, and stop being foolish. But another voice inside her head reminded her of another rumor she had heard regarding the Seekers -- that they stole children from the plains and drank their blood, to aid in their bizarre prophesying rituals. Foolish! She told herself again. You know perfectly well that isn't true! Nevertheless, she was relieved when the bowl was not offered to her.

            The bowl carefully set aside, the lead Seeker turned to her. "State your question, and we shall answer. State your problem, and if it pleases us, we shall solve." The voice was soft and rasping, yet pleasantly soothing. Helena decided that this Seeker, too, must be female.

            Taking a deep breath, Helena began. "I am --" she started, then stopped. Her parched throat made the words come in a croak. The lead Seeker made a gesture, and one of her companions filled a clay bowl and handed it to Helena.

            Relieved to see that the liquid was clear, not red, Helena lifted the bowl to her lips nonetheless mistrustfully. Forcing jaws to unclamp, she took a sip, then swallowed the rest gratefully. Water. Just water. Helena almost laughed at her own foolishness. Chin dripping, she handed back the bowl and began again.

            "I am Helena, of House Al Dakar," she said, for the benefit of those who might not already know. The Seekers looked at one another upon hearing her name, but whether in fear or anticipation, Helena could not say. Yet none of them seemed surprised at learning her identity. How even one of the Seekers knew her name was a mystery, for no Al Dakar had visited these mountains in ten generations. Yet it was said that the Seekers did not age the way normal people did... Perhaps they remembered. Helena shivered again, and scolded herself for it. She was here for help, and she would not leave until she got it. No matter what the price.

            Clutching her skirts in white-knuckled grips in an effort to stop her shivering, Helena spoke again. "I have been ill, with the Black Fever that has swept through the plains. Through my people." The Seekers eyed each other nervously, all except the leader, who met Helena's fearful stare with an unblinking stare of her own. Helena plowed on quickly, licking lips that had suddenly gone dry. "I have recovered, but the Healers of my people say that I will never have children, because of the damage the illness has done."

            The Seeker sitting to the left of the leader spoke, eyes narrowing to lazy slits. "You have a child."

            "A son," Helena said quickly, with no time to be startled. "Born before my illness. But I need a daughter, to carry on the family name. Without a daughter, House Al Dakar will perish with me. I am the last of the line."

            More glances passed between the Seekers, before the leader spoke. "A daughter. Yes. That is what you require." Then she, too, paused to glance significantly around the semi-circle.

            Helena kept her face still, holding onto that look of meek determination that she had practiced during the long journey across the desert and plains: head bowed, eyes uplifted, she waited. Waited for their pronouncement, and wondered at the looks being exchanged around the semi-circle.

            "Yes," the leader said, returning her eyes to Helena. "It pleases us, and so it shall be."

            "How --?" Helena began, but the Seekers sitting around her had gone completely still, eyes closed. The semi-circle tightened around her until the two ends met, forming a complete circle, hands linked.

            Helena remained crouched in the center, frozen, eyes darting nervously. This was not what she had expected, not that she'd had any idea what to expect. Advice, maybe? Some type of medicinal cure, perhaps? Her heart pounded in her chest till she was sure the Seekers could hear every heartbeat.

            A soft hum began among the Seekers, at first no more than a low murmur. It rose in volume and pitch until Helena wanted to cover her ears to drown the raucous noise. Just as quickly as it began, the keening wails stopped, but the ringing continued in Helena's ears like a gong. Her eyes shut and her teeth clenched, she waited in case the noise should start up again.

            Blessedly, it did not, but in the silence an eerie feeling began to come over Helena. Imagination, she told herself. They've just got you on edge, that's all it is. But the feeling would not go away: a slow, cold numbness that started in th pit of her stomach and spread its way through her entire body, down to her fingertips. She looked at her white-knuckled fingers in a curious amazement, where they lay in her lap, still clutching her skirts. Summoning all her strength, she tried to wiggle her fingers. Tried, and failed. It was with shock that she realized she could no longer feel her hands gripping her rough skirts.

            Shock faded, however, as the numbness reached her brain. Blackness rolled in. When she next became aware, she was slumped face forward on the cool shaded rocks. She sat up with a start and a gasp, eyes darting to take in her surroundings. Her hand went to her forehead -- it hurt -- then back down in front of her face; she flexed her fingers in front of her eyes, as if to prove to herself that she could do it.

            Around her in a circle, the Seekers watched, expressionless. Nothing had changed since her blackout except that the Seekrs no longer held hands, and were one and all watching her intently. What did they think they were about, anyway? Frightening her to the point of paralysis that way!

            Before her fright had turned all the way to anger, the lead Seeker spoke. "So you have asked, and so we have granted."

            "Granted? But I don't --" Helena began, confused and suspicious, but the Seeker cut her off.

            "A daughter. You will have your daughter. It has been decided, and so it shall be."

            Relief and amazement flooded through Helena like a wave. "A daughter? But how... How did you...?" Relief gave way once more to suspicion. "How do you know?" she demanded, her meek demeanor superceded by incredulity.

            "It has been decided," the Seeker repeated, unperturbed, "and now we must speak of the price."

            Helena exhaled slowly. An agreement was an agreement, and this agreement stretched back tens of tens of generations. Whatever the outcome, here in Questioner's Circle, the price must be paid to the Seekers' satisfaction. Helena knew this, and was prepared. She produced a bulging leather purse from beneath the folds of her skirt. The purse was filled to bursting with gold and precious jewelry. A fortune. Once it had not been a tenth of the wealth of House Al Dakar. Once, but no longer. But for a daughter, it was worth the price. She proffered the purse to the leader.

            The Seeker never even glanced at the purse, but waved it away dismissively with one spidery hand. "The price is not yours to decide."

            Helena returned the purse to its pouch underneath her skirts with a mixture of relief and trepidation. So much wealth... what could the Seekers possibly want in lieu? "Name your price," she said, surprising herself by the steadiness of her voice. What did they want? What did she have to offer?

            "A daughter," the Seeker said smoothly, answering her unspoken question, and Helena started, face going ashen. "Not one shall you bear," the Seeker continued, unaware or uncaring of the reaction her statement had produced, "but two. Your precious House Al Dakar shall stand, through one, but the other... yours in flesh, yet ours in spirit, she will return to us one day, return to unite your people and ours in the face of destruction. It has been decided."

            Helena stared at the Seeker, trembling. What did she mean? What could she possibly mean?

            "Rise, woman," one of the Seekers intoned.

            "Rise, Helena," a second joined in.

            "Rise, House Al Dakar," the Seekers said as one, rising themselves, and pulling Helena to her feet. "Rise, and go."

            Pale hands turned her, shoved her out of the cave mouth, in the direction whence she had come. "Go!" their voices echoed to her as she stumbled across the mountain plateau, down the steep slope towards the plains below.