The only evidence of passing time is the slight darkening of the sky. I know it must be nearing late afternoon, but without the sun in sight, it is hard to pinpoint an exact time.
Bastien halts directly in front of me and I slam into his back, grunting as I break against him and slump to the ground.
“What’d you do that for?” I rub my chin, sore from where I hit.
He waves at me to be quiet and I’m instantly alert. I rise to my feet, crouching low as I hurry to his side.
His gaze sweeps the white landscape. I follow his lead but close my eyes, feeling my way instead. I’m about to tell him that whatever he heard must be an animal, but I hear a hiss pass through his lips. My eyes pop open and I nearly stumble backward.
A woman stands before us, less than fifteen feet ahead. She is elderly and hunched at the shoulders. Long white hair flows to her waist in a single braid, curled over her left shoulder. Small wisps stick out around her face. Her cheeks are thin and her face wrinkled with the passage of time. Pale, translucent skin is pulled taut over arthritic hands, curled inward like claws.
I find myself completely lost in the woman’s gaze. Her eyes are as blue as the deepest sea and filled with vibrant life, betraying a youth that is in sore contradiction to the state of her physical body. A silver cloak flows over her frail frame, the hood drawn back from her head to rest upon her back. Her sleeves are wide and billowy. Her feet concealed by the wide hem that rests upon the snow.
Bastien places a hand upon my wrist in warning. “Who are you?”
“I am Sariana, high prophetess of Calisted.” Her eyes appear to twinkle from within. “At least I used to be until I was shipped off to this place.”
“Are you a friend or foe?”
The woman laughs as she stretches her hands out on either side of her. “Do I look as if I can bring you any harm?” Bastien frowns but says nothing in response. The woman’s smile broadens. “You are wise not to trust me, Bastien. Although, I think you may decide you need to hear what it is I have to say.”
His grip on my wrist is almost painful. “How do you know my name?”
“Oh.” She waves a hand noncommittally in the air. “I know a great many things. I wouldn’t be a very good prophetess if I didn’t, hmm?”
Casting a glance in my direction, I know Bastien is trying to gauge my reaction. I can sense nothing about this woman, no abilities, yet there is something different about her. Almost as if she weren’t standing there at all. A void.
She turns her gaze upon me. “Although you may possess vast amounts of power, Illyria, you will not be able to search my memory. It is a gift given to seers at birth to protect our visions so none may be implanted or stolen.”
“I can see her,” I say to Bastien, never dropping the woman from my gaze, “but I can’t feel her.”
“Has that ever happened before?”
I shake my head. He draws me close to his side. “What is it that you want from us, prophetess?”
“You ask the wrong question, young man. What you should be asking yourself is what you want from me.”
“I want nothing,” he replies. I can hear his heart beating beside me, thrumming loudly. Or perhaps that is my own heart. I can't tell.
“On the contrary. You have one question that burns brighter than all the others.” Lifting the hem of her cloak, she turns, glancing back at us over her shoulder. “You want to know why you are still in love with Illyria.”
The small wooden building is hidden behind a grove of thickly overgrown spruce trees. I wouldn’t have known it was even there if I hadn’t been straining to see our destination. It blends perfectly with the woodland backdrop, the roof blanketed with snow and the walls hewn from trees of the same spruce family.
A small spiral of smoke rises from a chimney, the stone slightly wonky as it perches atop the slanted roof. Two small, square windows can be seen in the front of the home as we approach, smeared with years of grime.
When Sariana turns to smile back at us over her shoulder, pushing the door open, I realize with a start that her mouth is nearly toothless. How did I not notice that before?
Nervous tension wiggles down my spine as I cross the threshold into a dark room. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim light of candles set about the room.
The elderly woman putters about the cluttered room, stepping lightly over stacks of books to lower herself into a rickety rocking chair nestled in the corner. I notice very little of my actual surroundings as I sink to the floor before her, careful not to knock over a stack of leather-bound books to my right. I feel lightheaded as I look at her, mesmerized by the glow within her eyes. It is a stunning trick of light, almost like the brilliant green glow in the eyes of a wild animal after the sun has gone down.