1 post tagged “devon davies”

Yes, NaNoWriMo has started, and so far it's going really well. My plot is vaguely coherent, my characters are starting to find their voices and even though I'm not sure how it ends I've got some good ideas for conflicts coming up. Things are appearing that I didn't know about, like Weavers, apparently Seer religion is more complex than I realised, and I'm happy!

So, as usual, here's chapter one (super rough nano draft) for everyone, but for future updates you need to be my friend. You know you want to be my friend :)

Devon Davies' Destiny

Chapter One - The cards you're given
Devon had often dreamed of holding a sword like this, doing great deeds of daring, vanquishing the enemy, defending the innocent and having them all chant his name as their hero. Though at the age of 15 he'd often dreamt of a great many things, like being a famous adventurer exploring the lost reaches of the lands and finding hidden riches, or of some fairy good mother turning up and telling him there had been some mistake and he, Devon Davies was actually some lost prince from a distant kingdom where fame and glory was just waiting for him to reclaim his throne. But dreams were one thing. Destiny was another entirely, plus his mother would be mortified if she thought he secretly wished he was someone else's child. That wasn't true. He loved his parents deeply, he just thought there must be something...well, more.

“Devon! Stop daydreaming and give me my sword, boy!”

“Yes, your highness. Sorry.” Devon avoided the gaze of Prince Algernon's friends as he handed the glorious weapon to its rightful owner. They didn't even try to hide their laughter.

“Honestly, I don't know where your head is half the time, but you should keep it on your job, boy, or I'll be having words with your father about assigning me a new man servant!”

“I'm sorry, your highness. It won't happen again,” he quickly promised. His father would be devastated if he had to be redeployed in the household. As far as he was concerned serving one of the royal family was the greatest honour there was.

“Well it had better not. I need staff that I can rely on in order for me to realise my destiny.” The over muscled, flame-haired royal turned to his friends, all in various stages of training for their inevitable knight-hoods. “You see, my friends, it is important you get good help in order to achieve the greatness that we are all destined for. In my birth prophecy there was no doubt in the Seers' minds that I will become a great hero when the war comes, and you are all here because they saw such greatness ahead of you. We all have important parts to play in the great tapestry. Don't allow little threads to get in the path of your greatness. We have responsibilities that will shape the future.”

Devon felt his blood boiling. “Just because I'm not destined to be a war hero doesn't mean my life doesn't have any importance!”

“Oh, I'm sure you're right, Devon, you're very important. I mean, what would Algernon's horses do without you to muck them out,” said Percival. He wound Devon up more than any of them. He could almost understand it from the noble families, but Percival was a humble baker's son, but just because the Seers prophesied that he'd be a knight in the war he gets treated like a lord and Devon get treated like something a lord would scrape off their boot. Actually no, they'd get him to do the scraping. Birth prophecies just cut through all these pesky class barriers. If you were lucky enough to be destined for greatness you were automatically one of the elite.

“Thank you for reminding me, Percival. Boy, go and clean out the stables. Once we have complete our training you will sharpen my sword and clean my armour, then you should go and get yourself a suitable punishment from your father for your insolence today. That should put you in a less exuberant mood.”

Devon sighed inwardly. He knew a big, dramatic outward expression of his exasperation would only serve to get him into more trouble at the moment. “Yes, your highness,” he said, and headed towards the stables to fulfil his destiny.

* * *

As Hannah made her daily journey to the Temple of True Sight, she couldn't resist watching the young knights at practice on the way past the training yard. She'd never considered herself the kind of girl who'd stare whimsfully at strapping young men, though she was at the age where people seemed to expect it.

“Good grief, stop drooling, Hannah,” a voice from behind her said, and a moment later she felt the hood of her cloak get pulled back. She turned to see a thin, dark-haired girl that always put her in mind of a wisp of smoke: transparent and toxic. She glared down at Hannah, as she was a whole foot taller than her tiny 5'2” stature, though narrowed charcoal grey eyes, one thin eyebrow delicately arched into an expression of contempt that Hannah strong suspected she had spent hours practising in front of a mirror. She was flanked by her two shadows, Daria and Mather

“I wasn't drooling, Rhiannon, I was just watching. That's not a crime.”

“Well you should stop 'watching' and get to class, Hannah. The saints know you of all people can't afford to miss any lessons.” Her cronies giggled behind her, even Mather, who giggled so much like a girl Hannah didn't think he had any business teasing other people. Still, she couldn't help the blush she felt rising in her cheeks and wished Rhiannon hadn't pulled her hood down baring her pale cheeks.

“I'm a good student, Rhiannon,” she mumbled, knowing before she even started that had to be the most pathetic attempt at defending herself in the history of self defence.

“Oh please, your prophecies are an embarrasment. You'll be going to class until your 60. You're completely hopeless, Hannah.”

“My prophecies are accurate.”

“Well Benson the royal cartographer can draw maps, it doesn't make him an artist.” Mather and Daria made some approving noises, making Rhiannon smile even more at her own comparison. “I think that's enough encouragement for the terminally hopeless,” she said to them. “We'd better get to class, not that we need any more lessons before Assignment Day.”

She swept passed Hannah, flicking her sleek hair over her shoulder into her face as she passed. Hannah's nose twitched, but it wasn't from the irritation of the hair. She felt that familiar feeling wash over her, the sensation of being connected to something bigger for just one moment, then as quickly as it came the feeling was gone.

“I'd watch out for that donkey card if I were you,” she called after them.

“What?” Rhiannon stopped before crossing of the street and turned back, and just at that moment a cart rushed past them, kicking up dirty rain water from the side of the road and soaking the bottom half of the robes of all three of them. The noises of anger that Rhiannon made very quickly stopped sounding like anything that even vaguely resembled language.

Hannah was dignified enough to not smile until after she had passed them. They wouldn't thank her. There could be some case for the argument that she had saved their lives, that if she hadn't called out at that moment they would have stepped into the street and been hit by the cart, but Hannah had trained for her future as a Seer her who life. Destiny didn't work like that. The image that had been left in her head from that brief connection was the exact one she left behind her, with three people who couldn't deserve it more covered in mucky water, so no one would ever know what would have happened if she hadn't delivered her prophecy, an no one would ever question it. There was no other way it could have happened. Nothing went against the design. Nothing.

* * *

Devon set the prince's armour and weapons down on the table and sank slowly to the floor, taking a moment to catch his breath. He was tired, he smelled, and he was rapidly losing patience. He'd tried to wash after mucking out the horses, but some things just required a bath to get rid of, and he couldn't have one of those until the end of the day. There just wasn't one single part of his job that he didn't hate. He couldn't understand how it could possibly be his one true call in life. He'd been doing odd jobs in the palace for as long as he could remember, started serving Algernon at the age of 13, and despite his father's assurances that he would grow into the role, after 2 years it didn't seem to be getting any better.

His breath regained he grudgingly got to his feet and picked up the sword and started to clean it. It was ridiculous, those boys waved this bit of metal around and they were hailed as heroes. The kingdom wasn't even at war yet, but the fact the Seers had prophesied their greatness meant they could to reap all the benefits now. It didn't look that hard, jumping around poking people. Any idiot could do that.

He could be any idiot, he though. With the trepidation of a child doing something they knew they shouldn't, but had already resigned themselves to doing it anyway, he slowly placed the cleaning materials down on the table and pulled his hands back like he was afraid they might cling to him. Satisfied that they were in fact going to stay where he put them he equally cautiously picked up Algernon's sword. He'd held the weapon many times before. It's weight was certainly familiar to him. It looked like a very fine weapon indeed, though to be fair he hadn't seen many others up close. The one's in the palace armoury looked nice enough. There was a trend for making the weapons look pretty, with delicate etchings on the blades and elaborate paintings decorating the scabords, coloured ribbons sometimes wrapped around the hilt. Devon could never work out why this was. He didn't suppose that anyone being killed by one of these blade had an appreciation for the the ascetics of the weapon that had slain them.

Algernon's sword had a very finely crafted hilt with an elaborate basket of fine silver threads cascading around where the hand would go. Devon grasped it there firmly and held it before him. The weight did feel different when he was supporting it all with his wrist. It also quickly became apparent that the hilt had been moulded specifically to Algernon's hand as Devon found his didn't sit comfortably on it. Still, he wasn't going to let a little discomfort deter him.

He moved his right foot behind him as he had seen the knights-in-training do many times before, the stepped forward swinging the sword across his front. “Take that!” he told his imaginary foe, taking another jab, then the ill-fitting hilt slipped from his grasp. He jumped back as the royal sword hit the stone floor with a clatter that echoed around the room and probably down the corridors as well. “Oh oh,” he muttered, quickly retrieving it and inspecting it for damage. There were some minor scratches that he was sure would come out with enough polishing. Other than that it seemed fine. Dropping to couldn't possibly do more damage than hitting people in armour with it would. He breathed a loud sigh of relief and placed it carefully on the table before starting on cleaning the armour with the full intention of pleading ignorance should anyone come along to investigate the noise, whistling a casual tune as he worked so everyone was extra certain of his innocence.

What poor Devon didn't know at this point was someone had already seen him.

* * *

“Birth Prophecies,” Master Seer Nyree said in that firm tone of voice that was just close enough to the edge of angry to frighten the class into silence without actually revealing a temper. “Birth Prophecies are the most important predictions we can ever make as Seers. Every child born in the kingdom must have one done.”

“We know all this,” said Rhiannon. “We're not first years, you know.”

“I'm well aware of your levels and ability, and don't think that your aptitute or your connections give you the right to back chat in my class room. You haven't graduated yet Miss Aydin.” Rhiannon just rolled her eyes with the air of someone who clearly didn't care they'd been reprimanded, but wasn't will to push the point at that moment. “As I was saying,” Hannah's teacher continued, “Assignment Day is tomorrow and it's essential that you are all prepared for whatever you are given. This is the start of your careers, gaining experience with seasoned Seers before you graduate and get the title of Novice Seer. Birth Prophecies are the corner stone of our society. They reveal everyone's part in the great design. It is essential that these are done with sensitivity and care. We have a duty to ensure the pattern is formed as smoothy as possible. We do not go around telling people when and how they are going to die, Miss Morley,” she said with a glare at Hannah and made her retreat further into her cloak and wish that hoods were allowed in class.

“I just said what I saw,” she mumbled.

“Pardon, Miss Morley? You must enunciate if you wish to be heard. You really cannot mumble so when talking to the public.”

“I just said what I saw,” she repeated louder, invoking some sniggers from the class. Master Seer Nyree sighed and rubbed her temples for a moment.

“Miss Morley, the last thing in the world that you should do is 'say what you see'. We can't have people running around trying to avoid their fates just because they don't like them. It's inevitable that what we predict will come to pass and you're only making their lives more miserable by telling them what to expect. Self-fulfiling prophecies don't benefit anyone, people trying to go to the desert to avoid drowning then passing out from the heat in their bowl of soup. It's just messy. The design cannot be changed. The threads may take different paths but in the end the tapestry will always be the same.

“We also have a responsibility to protect the Temple. Leaving some room for interpretation, again, I'm looking at you, Miss Morley, allows for the natural waves in flow of the pattern.” Hannah decided to try and use her straight blonde hair as a shield from the looks of the class in the absence of her hood. “Do not predict absolutes under any circumstances, I cannot stress that enough. The last thing we want are the public Prophecitors actually making a case. No one in known history has made a successful claim against the temple for a false prophecy and if any of my students are the first I shall be so ashamed that I will quit teaching and dedicate myself to making that person's life a living nightmare, within the confines of their own birth prophecy of course,” she added. The teacher had not looked at her, but Hannah knew what everybody in the room was thinking. They were just waiting for her to make a mistake that would throw the reputation of the whole system into disrepute.

“Now, I'm putting you into groups to demonstrate your birth prophecies,” she said, and started walking around the tables randomly numbering people for their groups. Hannah gave a mental groan when she realised that she'd been given the same number as Rhiannon. Rhiannon on the other hand was no so subtle about her displeasure.

“I am not going with Hannah!” she yelled, folding her arms in the most severe why possible as she tossed her hair back and forth like an agitated pony. “Not a chance. I want Daira and Mather.”

“You'll go where I put you, Rhiannon, and I won't hear any arguments. It will be several years before you're advanced enough to select your own trio so I'd get used to it if I were you. Besides, perhaps your talent will give the group a boost.”

Rhiannon seemed mollified by what Hannah considered a very transparent ego manipulation, but if she was shallow enough to thrive on empty compliments that wasn't Hannah's problem. They were paired with a quiet girl called Gillian who Hannah understood got good marks in her work despite her non-participation in class, so she had long ago concluded that the girl was just naturally shy. Hannah herself had not started out as shy as she was, but repeatedly being put down in class had gradually knocked the confidence out of her and she learned to keep her theories to herself. She did make copious notes on them though.

Practising birth prophecies was a peculiar event for most students. They would have to do a repeat prophecy for a child born in the kingdom that day, so some other trio of seers had already been to visit the family and delivered their verdict. This allowed the student's prophecies to be checked against the professional ones for accuracy, but also meant doing them felt strange as they would never be used. It was more of a struggle for a seer to force a prophecy that was not meant for them, but it could be done. Master Seer Nyree had always insisted that the great Weavers had intended them to train somehow. There was no reason why they shouldn't catch some future glimpse of the pattern that had already been seen.

Hannah watched in silence as three groups took there turns. Her mouth felt dry. As their turn got closer she grew more and more apprehensive of what she knew would come. She didn't need a vision to tell her. It was the same with every practice.

“Rhiannon, Gillian and Hannah!” She gulped as they were called up, but allowed herself to be swept along in the ritual. She knew it backwards, but it wouldn't help. “Baby Thatcher of the hamlet of Rockford.”

The girls stood in a circle around the focus sphere and placed their palms against each others creating a link between them. Hannah bowed her head and closed her eyes, knowing the others would be doing the same. She found it helped to visualise it in her mind. She was a little thread of light in her favourite colour, the rich red of the roses that grew in the court yard. Her thread snaked to the sphere where it met with the others. Hannah always imagined Rhiannon as black, and for some reason she felt green would be appropriate for Gillian. She had no idea if they created the same kind of pictures in their minds for the ritual. She didn't really have any friends to ask about their techniques.

When they found each other in the crystal the snaked and twisted around each other forming a much stronger thread. They worked as one to manoeuvre it to pierce through the block between them and the pattern. Hannah figured if the connection was always open their minds would be flooded with visions constantly, an experience that she was certain would send anyone mad. Sometimes it opened on its own, but to make it open required at least three people joined together. It did tend to work better if they actually got on. This was proven by the fact it took them several attempts to get through. Hannah felt that they were slightly pulling against each other, but they finally managed to move their thread as one, then separated to hold the gap open.

The connection to the pattern was always a little overwhelming at first. Hannah took a second to adjust, seemingly random images swirling into her mind and instantly rushing out again to make room for new ones. She knew she wouldn't recall these when the door was closed again. She made herself focus on the name she had been given, and quickly the pattern came into focus. She could see this new baby's thread, their place in the design. It had been set out before he'd even been born.

“Into peace this child is born,” Rhiannon chanted. “But soon his childhood will be torn.”

“The call of war. His fathers fight, defending home will be his plight,” Gillian added.

“As he takes a job with the blacksmith and helps forge weapons for the home guard,” Hannah blurted out before she could help herself. She had a strong feeling that there was more, but the connection evaporated as she felt the hands of the others leave hers and the circle was broken.

“Hannah!” Rhiannon yelled. “Can't you do anything right? I'm not working with her, Master Nyree. I'm not having Bland Hannah ruin my chances of a good assignment. I mean, how difficult can it possibly be to us the correct form? She clearly doesn't channel properly.”

“I was just saying...”

“...What you see,” the teacher said, not even bothering to hide her exasperation. “But you simply cannot be so blunt with prophecies, Miss Morley. We've been over this a thousand times. Have you been practicing the meditations I gave you?”

“Yes, Master Nyree,” she promised, finding herself fiddling with the fabric of her too long sleeves.

“And you pray every day at Reverence?”

“Of course, Master Nyree.”

“And you still can't channel the holy word of the Weavers?”

“I just see these pictures...” she muttered, trailing off under the pressure of the looks from her peers.

“Hannah, what are we going to do with you?”

Hannah didn't answer, but the fact her teacher had just called her by her given name for the first time ever she wasn't filled with confidence about the future.

* * *

Devon tip-toed down the corridor towards the delicious smells of dinner cooking. So perhaps being a knight wasn't for him. He'd never seen himself as a violent person anyway. But he knew there had to be something he could do that was more satisfying than being Prince Pratt-a-lot's personal slave. That was when a marvellous realisation came upon Devon. There were more opportunities to serve in the royal household than what he did. He wasn't sure on the specifics of his birth prophecy having never read it himself, but there just had to be something better, and he had always been a fan of food, which led him to his next great idea.

“Good day to you, John,” he said casually from the door to the chef.

“Devon,” was all he said in acknowledgement, giving him a curt nod in between adding ingredients to a large pan of soup. “What do you want, lad? I'm busy.”

“I know, that's why I was wondering if I could help you?”

That made him stop for a moment. “You want to work in the kitchen?” Devon nodded enthusiastically. “That doesn't sound like something Prince Algernon would ask you to do,” John said, raising an eyebrow suspiciously.

“It's not.” Devon should have known it wasn't going to be so easy. “Things aren't really working out with Prince Algernon, so I thought...”

“You thought you'd just come down here and bother me instead? You should know better than to think you can just go around swapping jobs just because you feel like it. Your father wouldn't like it one bit.”

“Ah yes, my father...” Surely a little white lie wouldn't hurt. Once he proved himself his father would see he was right and see reason. “...My father sent me. It was his idea. He would have come to tell you himself but there's this problem with the maids, they want equal holiday rights as the gardeners or something,” he rambled, hoping that wouldn't invite any more questions.

John stare at him carefully. Devon could almost see the cogs slowly turning in his head. “All right,” he said eventually, thrusting a wooden spoon into Devon's hand. “We'll give it a shot. Get your apron on. There's some hanging up on the storeroom wall.”

“Thanks for this, John. I won't let you down,” he promised, nearly tripping over a crate of vegetables in his eagerness to get to the aprons.

“Careful there, lad, this is a dangerous place to work. It's full of hot things and sharp things, and...hot things...and...”

“Sharp things?”

“Precisely!”

Of course fooling John was helped by the fact he wasn't the sharpest 'thing' in the knife box. He made the best food Devon had ever tasted though.

“Right, you can start by putting the bread in to bake.” He handed Devon a wooden palate with a doughy lump on it and point to the hearth. “Just be careful. That's one of them hot things, right?”

“Fire, hot, got it,” he said. As if it was that difficult a concept to grasp. It looked simple enough. There was a ledge over the hearth for the tray. All he had to do was slide it on, which he did. So far so good. The fire looked a little low though. Surely the bread would cook quicker if it was hotter.

“John?”

“Call me Chef when you're in my kitchen, lad.”

“Sorry. Chef?”

“Don't call me it now, you twit. I'm busy!”

Devon looked at the cooling embers again, and spied the bellows to the side. John would certainly be impressed by his initiative, give a glowing report to his father and all would be well. Someone else could serve at the pleasure of his highness.

He grabs the bellows and gave them a trial puff. The flames briefly flared up and licked the bottom of the shelf. That seemed to do the trick. He set about giving them a good old pump, feeling a growing sense of pride as the flames grew. Some ash blew back out of the fireplace but he could sweep that up later. The one thing he'd learnt in his last job was good sweeping techniques.

Devon watched in fascination as the bread started to rise right before his eyes. Strange though, it smelt like it was burning. It looked fine. That's when he noticed the smoke rising from below him. Looking down he realised a hot ember had attached itself to his apron and was starting to take hold.

“Drat!” he muttered, fumbling at the back to get the thing untied so he could take it off, but his nervous fingers couldn't make heads nor tails of the knot. He'd have to put it out. Searching desperately around he quickly spotted a large pan of water on the side. He flicked the bottom of the flaming apron into the pan with a sigh of relief, though his relief was short lived. The pan instantly lit up with a blue flame, making Devon just back in shock still attached to the burning cloth.

“What in the holy halls of Pethra?” Everything went dark as Devon felt a something heavy drop over his head. For a second he thought he'd lost consciousness before he realised he was still standing and very much aware of the sensation of being roughly beaten.

When the weight was lifted Devon saw John glaring at him, a large blanket which was covered in various burn marks in his hands. “What the bally do you think you were playing at!”

“I was just trying to put out the fire,” said Devon sheepishly.

“You tried to put it out in the brandy for the King's poached pears, you twonk. Now it's wasted!” Devon had never seen a person's face literally go red with rage before.

“Sorry. I'm fine by the way.”

“Aye, and you're lucky you are too. That's more than I can say for the bread and that apron. You should never have the hearth that hot for baking! It burns on the outside before it cooks in the middle!”

“Well, I'm sure these are things I'll pick up in time.”

“No, you won't! You're not working in my kitchen, lad. You've no nounce about you. Common sense, that’s what you need. I'm telling your father that Algernon can bloomin keep you,” yelled John, pushing Devon out of the door.

“But I...” he started to say before he realised he was just talking to the door. And with that Devon's career as a world renowned Chef to Kings was over before it started.

* * *

Hannah had been told to wait after class. She found this incredibly disagreeable, mostly because it invited everyone to stare at her like she was an idiot on their way out, and Rhiannon and her posse had another opportunity to make fun of her while Master Seer Nyree disappeared.

She was alone when the old teacher finally returned and told her to report to Grand Master Seer Aydin. Grand Master Seer Aydin who was not only the head teacher of the training facility and one of only nine grand masters who sat on the Enlightened Nonumvirate, the highest honour a prophet can ever hope to gain, but was also Rhiannon’s father. The only thing she was thankful for was that all the other students had gone home by the time she made the long walk to his office.

She left the training wing of the temple via the main hall that looked out onto the court yard. It was busy even at this time of the afternoon, mostly with members of the public coming for the various services the temple offered. As usual there was a small queue at the on-duty Prophecitor’s door. At that moment the door was wide open as quite a large family tried to squeeze into the room. “But his prophecy clearly stated that we would amass great riches, the crowing jewel of which would be be envy of all, and clearly that hasn't happened!” A middle aged-woman yelled.

“Well there's still time,” the prophecitor responded. “There's no time limit on prophecies you know.”

“He's dead.”

“Ah, I see.” There was a few moments of silence while he shuffled through some papers. The unsatisfied family members of the recently departed exchanged uneasy looks. “Hmm,” he said thoughtfully. “It says her your mother's name was Ruby.”

“Yes, and?”

“And I'd hazard a guess that she was an attractive woman in her youth.”

“What of it?”

“I'm sure she made a fine crowning jewel to his riches.”

“Haven't you been paying attention? There weren't any riches. That's why we're here.”

“Ah, but I'm afraid in the Sally Hunter case of the Year of the Willow it was firmly established that riches could refer metaphorically to anything the subject considered of value, including and most importantly, his family.”

Another moment's pause as they absorbed this. Hannah was almost out of earshot by the time they erupted, the last thing she heard being one of the sons complain that it was a load of poppycock and they could make anything mean anything if they wanted. That wasn't entirely true. There certainly was flexibility in how some prophecies came to pass, but the options were limited. The temple prophicitors never had too much difficulty defending any case.

She left the hall and entered the private area of the temple reserved for Seers. Her embarrassment was only shortly spared as everyone knew there was only one reason why a student would be in this area, unless of course they were there without permission.

Hannah found Grand Master Seer Aydin's chambers reasonably quickly. The Enlightened Nonumvirate apparently did not approve of walking up stairs, so had opted to have their chambers on the ground floor. Novice Seers were granted the pleasure of climbing the 5 levels to the top of the temple.

The Grand Masters' private corridor was guarded, resulting in her having to explain in full detail exactly why she needed to see Grand Master Aydin. The guards gave her a disapproving look suggesting they thought her a naughty child being sent for punishment. That irked her more than anyone else's reactions. She certainly hadn't done anything wrong. That said, she wondered why the Grand Master wanted to see her. They couldn't kick her out. It was foretold that she would be a Seer at the temple, that's how every Seers was selected. No one had ever been dismissed. It would go against the design. She would find out momentarily. The large mahogany door of Grand Master Aydin loomed before her. She knocked.

“Enter,” a voice from within bellowed. Hannah obeyed, gingerly pushing the heavy door inwards and peering into the room. “Come in, Miss Morley. Take a seat.”

She nodded and did as she was told. It seemed the best way to handle the situation. Whatever was going to happen couldn't be stopped now.

“Master Nyree has explained your situation to me. It is quite clear at this point that you're not ready to prothesis to the public. Your predictions are too raw, too rash, you leave us open to the risk of legislation.”

“May I speak, Grand Master?” she asked timidly, feeling that now she had to at least say something in her defence before he announced the rest of his conclusions. He nodded. “My prophecies are just as accurate as anyone else's in the class. Everything I have predicted has come true exactly as I saw.”

“But there is an etiquette to these things, Miss Morley. An expectation! When you have been doing this for as long as I have you'll understand that people don't want to hear exactly what the future holds. They just want a teaser, a gentle prod in the right direction. Everyone will take their proper place in time, Miss Morley, even you, but the illusion of having some choice is what gets many of them through the meagre existence, so we can't have someone like you just telling them what is going happen at the end. If I may be completely blunt, you're an embarrassment to this organisation.”

“An embarrassment?” Hannah repeated, hardly believing that the Grand Master was being so openly mean to her. She could see where Rhiannon got it from now.

“That's why I'm giving you your assignment now.” He handed her the scroll she had been expecting to receive tomorrow with her class mates. She broke the official wax seal of the temple and unrolled the paper.

“The Archives?” she read aloud.

“Nobody is willing to work with you, Miss Morley, and you know perfectly well that induced visions require a trio. Working in the archives will allow you to remain here at the temple without causing any unnecessary difficulty. It's a very important responsibility, I trust you will take it seriously.”

“Well of course, Grand Master, but...”

“We will review your position in due course. I suggest to spend your free time in meditation and pray daily that you somehow master the art of channelling before graduation if you wish to attain the title of Novice Seer. Report to the archiver in the morning. That will be all, Miss Morley. I have a lot to prepare for tomorrow.”

He turned is attention to papers on the desk and acted like Hannah was no longer in the room. At that moment she was more than happy to make his illusion a reality, and she silently left.

* * *

Devon navigated the palace like a wounded animal. His pride already hurt the last thing he wanted was to meet an other predator on the way, so he listened at corners before going round them and ran past open doors so people inside wouldn't notice him. So far he's managed to avoid any unwanted rendezvous, though sooner or later he was going to have to face someone.

Slipping down an empty corridor, Devon noticed that one of the doors was left open. He prepared himself to run past it and had a listen. It didn't sound like there was anyone in there. Peeking through the portal we quickly realised that it was the practice room for the official court minstrels. The colourful coats hanging on the walls and various instruments dotted around the room gave Devon his first clue. They'd probably slipped out to the nearest tavern for a couple of hours. Now that seemed like the life, entertaining foreign princesses in the evening, serenading local maidens by day, enjoying copious amounts of beer to release those creative juices. His father thought alcohol numbed the mind and never let him touch a drop unless is was a special occasion, he had the next day off, his father could be there to supervise and off course the planets were in alignment causing a purple moon. Devon was fairly certain the life of a mistral would involve a great deal more drinking than that.

He looked around and found the corridor still empty, so ducked into the room and shut the door behind him. Devon perused the selection of instruments and decided which would suit him best. Singing had never been his strong point. The flute looked interesting, but it had rather a lot of buttons on it and he wasn't sure how they worked. The lyre on the other hand, well Devon had heard a lot about lyre players. Actually, he hadn't managed to hear that much about lyre players as no one would tell him, but it seemed to him there was rather a lot a great things they did no one wanted him to know about so that was the instrument for him. He picked up the stringed instrument and slung it round his shoulder with the leather strap then gave it a good strum. The noise that was produced didn't sound anything like any chord Devon had heard played before, but despite the bad noise there was something strangely satisfying about strumming the strings. It was almost as if they could channel his aggressive feelings about Algernon. It felt good.

Devon spent several immensely therapeutic minutes jumping around the room making energetic, if entirely un-tuneful sounds. He was so engrossed in the carefree joy of it that it wasn't until he span to the face the door mid-chord that he realised his father was standing there staring at him solomly.

“Dad!” He instantly let go of the lyre, though it couldn't go anywhere because of the strap.

“Devon, would you care to explain what's going on here?”

“Well, I was just trying out some different things.”

“You were making a terrible noise.”

“I just need some practice,” he said.

“And what about cooking? Do you need practice at that too?”

“Well, I think that would help.”

“No, Devon,” his father said firmly. “What you need is to concentrate on your duty. You have a responsibility to Prince Algernon. You can't just go running around the palace making trouble for everyone else. I'm in charge of the staff and you make me look like a fool when my own son can't follow the rules. Do you know how many people would be honoured to serve a future war hero?”

“Then let them, Dad. It's not for me!” Devon insisted. “I can't stand him, I can't stand his friends, and I can't spend my whole life being the object of their contempt. There has to be something else that I can do! I'm better than that.”

He knew right away it was the wrong thing to say. His father suddenly looked away from him, a dark grimace on his face.

“I didn't mean...”

“I know what you meant. You think serving the royal family is beneath you? The service that I and your mother, and our parents before us performed with pride and honour our whole lives? I expect some rebelliousness from a boy your age but I'm ashamed that you have no respect for the work we do.”

“I do respect you, Dad” he insisted, desperately wishing he hadn't been so rash with his words. “It's just, don't you ever wonder if there's something more that you can be?”

“What I can be is the best master of staff this palace has ever seen, and what you can be is a support to Prince Algernon that will see him through the war and make me proud. That is what I need you to focus on, not chasing whimsical fancies. He knows his place and your old enough now to get used to yours.”

Devon considered arguing, but there was nothing more he could say they hadn't battled out a thousand times before. His father would never question that his pre-ordained position in life was the perfect place to be. As far as he was concern it was the only place to be. “Fine,” he said. “I'll try to be more patient with Algernon. Maybe I'll grow into it.”

His father smiled for the first time in the exchange. “That's my son. Remember, Prince Algernon is a young man too, with two very influential older brothers to content with. He's still growing into his role too, but you'll see. He's destined for greatness.”

“Right,” said Devon. “And we'll be there to cheer him when he comes home and clean his war-soaked boots.” Yes, that was exactly the future Devon had always dreamed of.