A Muddle of Magic. Alexandra Rushe

the god boomed, but Finn was unperplexed. The troll handed him his pack, and Finn removed a wooden bowl and a leather flask and set them on the ground.

      “‘What’s this?’ the god demanded, shrinking once more to his former size.

      “Finn uncorked a flask and poured water into a wooden bowl. ‘Water from the Kalder Sea,’ he said. Setting the bowl on the ground, Finn put one foot in the bowl and grinned at the god. ‘As easily as that, I have bested you.’

      “‘By base trickery,’ Trowyn said, his face dark with fury.

      “‘The boy did not state how he would do the thing, only that he would do it,’ the troll said, coming to Finn’s defense. ‘By the rules of the contest, you must grant him his desire.’

      “Trowyn sneered. ‘And what prize is it you seek? Riches? Fame? Everlasting life?’

      “‘Nay, great god,’ Finn said, ‘I seek a god for my people, left orphaned by Xan’s murder.’

      “Trowyn was surprised and touched by Finn’s request. ‘Very well, but first you must complete another task, this time one of my choosing, and there will be no deceit. Bring me the Hound of Mandoora’s collar. If you succeed, I will be your god and the god of your people.’” The troll stroked the boy’s cheek. “But that is a tale for another time.”

      The boy yawned again. “You left out the part about Reba. She’s the one who figured out that Finn had tricked Trowyn.”

      “I didn’t forget. It’s time you were abed.”

      Rising from the chair, the troll carried him to his bed and tucked him under the covers.

      The wooden frame groaned as she settled her weight on the edge of the mattress. “Goodnight, boy.” Her yellow eyes gleamed in the darkened room. “Don’t let the stone fairies bite.”

      “Night, Mor.” He put his arms around her burly neck and gave her a hug. “I love you.”

      “I love you, too, my Raven,” Gertie said. “Sleep well.”

      Chapter 1

      The Seeker

      Seratha smoothed the wrinkles from her rough woolen smock and rapped on the iron-bound door. There was no answer. Summoning her courage, she knocked again.

      “Enter,” a man said from within.

      The sound of the deep, masculine voice sent a shiver of mingled dread and anticipation through the anxious novice. She’d been a disciple at the Tower three full cycles, and though she’d glimpsed the High Seer many times from afar, she’d never been within a stone’s throw of him. Nor would she be now but for the sudden arrival of their guest.

      Sending a hasty prayer to Gar that the drek herder on their doorstep did not shame her, she pushed open the heavy door and slipped inside with her head bowed. The heat in the room was stifling and the sweet herbs burning in the braziers tickled her nose. Squelching the sudden urge to sneeze, she wriggled her toes in the thick Esmallan rug beneath her bare feet. She hadn’t been warm since she’d left her father’s tent. Situated on a rocky jut of land that overlooked the Gray Tides, the stone spire that housed the seers was bitterly cold, battered by squalls and salt spray, and the stinging winds that swept down from Northern Sethlar and the far reaches of Udom.

      Lifting her head, she risked a quick peek at her master. To be in the same room with the High Seer made her head swim. The object of her perusal stood at a window with his back to her. Emboldened, she examined the rest of the chamber. Unlike the spare, cheerless quarters set aside for the initiates, the master’s tower apartments were luxurious, as befitted one of his eminence. Costly tapestries hung on the walls, adding color to the drab stone and keeping the chill at bay. With a mild sense of shock, Seratha saw that a wood fire burned on the hearth. Wood was rare and costly along the rocky coast, and she and the other novices labored in the stinging wind, gathering peat, dung, and driftwood to keep the relentless chill at bay. Near the fireplace were a heavy table and high-back chair with carved armrests. Scrolls crammed with rows of spidery writing lay scattered across the gleaming tabletop and spilled from baskets onto the floor.

      Turning her head, Seratha caught a glimpse of the master’s solar through a partially open door. As a new candidate, Seratha went without shoes and slept on the hard floor. The High Seer slept on a huge bed piled high with thick furs.

      The man at the window turned and Seratha’s thoughts scattered to the wind. Zared was a tall, imposing man, with long blond locks liberally streaked with silver and a blade of a nose. He wore a flowing robe of sky blue, the color reserved for masters of divination. The light through the glazed windows sparkled on the silver embroidery that embellished the pointed sleeves, collar, and hem of his garment. To the dazzled novice, he seemed a god.

      His pale gaze scanned her, taking in her bare feet, the kerchief that covered her hair, and the unlined dark blue shift that marked her as a proselyte. A slight crease formed between his brows. “What insolence is this? Why do you trouble my repose, recruit?”

      Seratha flinched at the censure in his tone. Naadra, the seer and skaldiff assigned to the apprentices, had threatened to beat her soundly should she displease the master.

      “T-the skaldiff sent me, High One,” Seratha said, pleating the folds of her shapeless dress. “I am to inform you the Durngesi has returned.”

      Returned. The discovery that this was not the Durngesi’s first visit to the tower had come as a nasty shock. Seratha had left her former life behind when she pledged her body and gifts to the Circle. To her dismay, her past had followed her. Her fears had eased when she’d seen the man. The tribes that roamed the Durngarian Plain were large in number, and she did not recognize him. Whatever brought him here did not concern her.

      “Ah.” Zared folded his long-fingered hands. “Show him in.”

      Seratha nodded and scurried from the room. She rushed down the tower steps, almost tripping in her haste to do her master’s bidding, and found the visitor lounging at the bottom.

      “He will see you,” she said, frowning at the man’s temerity. “Why did you not remain in the scullery, as you were bid?”

      “I did not find the dirty pots to my liking.”

      The Durngesi returned the dagger he was examining to his boot. He was dressed in a tan tunic, breeches, and worn boots, but he bore himself with the arrogance of a king. A drekalli skin hung from his broad shoulders and his dark hair was tied back with a strip of leather.

      More likely a bit of intestine, Seratha thought with a sniff of disdain. Waste was abhorred by the tribesmen of the plains, and every part of the drekalli, the enormous, horned animals they herded, was used.

      She folded her arms and surveyed the man’s lean form, taking in the bone-handled knives strapped to his muscular legs and sheathed at his waist.

      “You cannot enter the high one’s presence armed,” she informed him from the steps. “The inhabitants of this place abjure violence.”

      “I am not armed. I left my bow and snare at the gate.”

      “What of your daggers?”

      He regarded her in evident astonishment. “A Durngesi is never without his knives. You should know this, little sister.”

      Seratha opened her mouth to chastise him roundly for the familiarity of his address—he was no kin of hers—and closed it again. She would not argue with an uncivilized brute who understood neither her talent nor the path of discipleship and service—the path of a visionary whose dreams would lend counsel to kings, while this one gathered drekalli dung for his fire.

      Drawing her dignity around her, she swept back up the stairs without bothering to see whether he followed.

      Opening the door, she announced, “The Durngesi, High One.”

      The Durngesi sauntered past her into the chamber and looked around.