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.
