I moved away from posting excerpts on BLACK MAGIC... for a couple of reasons. First, the first drafts sucked. Second, I was writing at such a pace that I had too much content to post (and didn't want it all online anyway). I am very enthusiastic about the progress I've made with WANTED... so I decided to post the first three chapters. I try not to post repeatedly in the same day unless it's really worth it, but I have a feeling this will go over LJ's allowed character limit, so I may post each chapter individually. We'll see how it goes. I hope you enjoy.


Chapter 1

Nashau had not been in Tinadian since his fifteenth birthday when his father brought him to give his oath of loyalty to the ducal minister of the interior. He didn't much care for the city then or now. Stone roads make everything—and everyone—faster. Rush here, rush there, no one took his time. And everyone was so suspicious. City folk thought they'd seen it all and were innately suspicious of anything they didn't already know.
A prophet could starve in the city if he wasn't a showman as well as a soothsayer. In Nashau's experience, a hungry prophet was an optimistic prophet but not necessarily an honest prophet. And if a prophet wasn't honest, then he was no better than the flimflam men that gave Nashau's profession such a bad reputation.
So he kept to the country where life moved at a pace more to his liking and the local barons and earls knew an honest prophet when they met one. Life was right in the country. Life was good in the country.
...Life was good in the country.
Tinadian was the ducal seat, the largest city and port south of the capital. Wind came off the sea and blew through the streets until it hit the horseshoe wall that enclosed the city, giving everything a general fishy, moldy, algae smell. Nashau leaned against a wall after passing through the southeastern foot-gate. He gasped for air, feeling like he was suffocating. How did anyone survive in this city? They must be experts at holding their breath.
The wait to enter the city had been unreasonable in Nashau's opinion. The guards asked him only from whence he came and what business he had in Tinadian. How could a line move so slowly with such little information required of those that had stood before him? How long would he have to wait to escape the city if he tried to flee back through the same gate to find the clean air on the other side.
Is his mission in Tinadian doomed to failure at the gate of the very city he traveled a week to reach? Was their some country technique he could use to breathe the miasma that poisoned the city's air?
Nashau dug through his pockets, discarding lint and moldy bits of bread, winding scraps of string and folding bits of waxed paper left over from the cheese he had eaten with his bread. Finally he turned up a clean handkerchief—cleaner than any of the other cloth in his pockets, at least—and soaked it with wine from the skin roped to his belt. He pushed the cloth around his nose and mouth, inhaling slowly until the fish smell was replaced with a more appealing floral bouquet.
Blessings to you, Saint Michard, and the miracle of your vintage.
Nashua pushed away from the wall and walked briskly away from the gate, escaping the various stares that followed him. City folk were notoriously amoral. The longer he lingered, the sooner someone would shove a knife in his stomach and rifle his pockets for his spare string.
Tinadian was an unnecessarily large city in Nashau's opinion, neither designed nor built with any forethought. The streets were hardly wider than the alleys and nothing was in a straight line for very long. How did anyone not lose themselves in this labyrinth?
Nashau wished he were back in East Bluefield. His sister had told him this plan was foolish, and as he turned in circles trying to ascertain his location, he saw the wisdom of her words. The city nailed signs to the sides of building at each corner, but if one did not know the name of the street to which he was traveling, then names had no value.
“If a city grows so large that its streets need names, then that city is too large,” Nashau said punctiliously. “Where in the Seven Kingdoms am I?”
“Spare a penny, squire?” a voice rasps from behind him. Nashau swung around, his robes billowing up and tangling around his arms flung up defensively. He pulled himself out of the tangle and looked for the voice.
A weathered man sat on a board taken from the side of a crate. He held up a tin cup, rattling it with the few coins already within. His hands were filthy, his long fingernails yellow, hair and eyebrows wild with unchecked growth. The beggar smiled and Nashau stepped back reflexively. His teeth were black from the pit juice, the foul liquid creeping along his gums. His robes are folded in such a way to suggest that there is nothing more to his legs than the knees that made dents in the soiled cloth. A cripple or a criminal whose legs were cut off as punishment.
“Just a penny, squire,” the beggar said. “No burden to one such as you.”
Nashau hesitated. He had pennies, but none to spare. He measured out enough coin from his savings to make it to Tinadian and back to East Bluefield with no extra extravagance. He had not presumed he would be required to bribe the locals. Either they would kill him or let him pass. It appeared that there was a third option where they took his money and left him as destitute as they.
“I'm sorry my man,” Nashau said, finally deciding on a course of action. “I have no pennies to spare. But I will offer you this compromise. I make for the ducal palace. If I find favor there, I will return with two pennies.” He pressed the handkerchief back to his face as soon as he finished speaking.
The beggar coughed savagely, gagging a few times, beating on his chest to force air inside. Nashau took a half-step forward, the movement hidden beneath his robe. Decency required he help the man, not to watch him suffocate. But Nashau was no physic and the beggar seemed to be engaged in the same chest pounding that Nashau himself would have attempted. To join in now would to invite some inscrutable constable passing by to arrest him for assault. City gaols were notorious for bleeding their prisoners of their money and the fortune of their family, both immediate and extended.
He stood there and watched until the beggar recovered his breath. The man's back bobbed up and down as if he were crying, but Nashau realized shortly that the man laughed. Laughed at him..
“Squire can't spare a penny,” he said, “but you can get audience with the Duke of Hillsborough. You are the most special type of pauper.” The beggar spat a glob of blood-tinged phlegm and sighed a deep breath. “Off with you, pauper. I am certainly a richer man than you.” He shook his cup, rattling it with the coins within.
Nashau furrowed his brow, taking unusual offense at the beggar's words. What care should he give to a criminal's words (Nashau decided the man was a criminal rather than a cripple given his harsh manners and the fact he lived in the city)? But he felt the need to defend himself and squared his shoulders to riposte the beggar.
“I did not claim to have audience with the Duke of Hillsborough and nor would I,” Nashau snapped. “I will meet with Podome, the ducal minister of prophecy.”
The beggar barked laughter, hooting and hollering as he rocked back and forth on his board.
“Prophet Podome is a colleague of mine,” Nashau continued plaintively. The beggar only roared louder.
“Enough,” Nashau shouted, ignoring the prudence of angering a criminal from the city. “You shall have no penny from me, not now and not when I return from the palace.” He turned and stormed past but came up short with the beggar's next words.
“You'll return as poor as you be now, pauper. Podome was dismissed from the duke's service a year past.”
Nashau looked over his shoulder, searching the beggar's face for the truth of his words. Did he merely hope to make sport of a stranger?
“Any colleague of that flimflam man would know of his dismissal. It was quite the scandal.” His eyes twinkled with amusement but the lines at their edges ached with sorrow. There was no lie, there. Nashau feels a stone in his stomach. So it was not just the country prophets, even one as great as Podome was affected.
“I am Prophet Nashau come today from East Bluefield to meet with Podome,” he said, walking back toward the board and its resident. “If you can tell me where I might find Podome, you may earn that penny you begged of me.”
Now it was the beggar's turn to regard Nashau. He spent less time on the face but lingered on the wine-stained nose and the wet handkerchief forgotten in his hand. Rough spun cotton robes, stitched leather shoes, callused fingers, the telltale signs of country life.
“Nashau Fletcher?” the beggar asked. “The seer who saved East Bluefield from the locust swarm of '69?”
Nashau waved his hand dismissively. “My first big prophecy, just before I came of age—wait. How do you know my surname?”
The beggar sat his cup aside. He rocked back and pulled with both arms until a stiff leg appeared from beneath his robe. Then the other. He tried to stand but his legs left in the same position for hours did not participate. He held up an arm. Nashau took it without thinking and hoisted the man to his feet.
“Podome Waxman, nice to meet you.”

Chapter 2

Prophecy being a trade-skill incapable of being passed from father to son, royal decree forbade any man from taking the surname Prophet. Likewise, maintaining the name Fletcher led to confusion when potential customers learned he had never completed his apprenticeship and could not make a quality arrow to save his life. Nashau, like most prophets, abandoned his surname and used only title and given name, an accepted custom among soothsayers. He signed his written correspondence with his full title, Nashau Fletcher, Advisor to the Barony d'Bluefields, Prophet. As the eldest son, the emergence of his gift had not come easily to his father, the next in a long line of fletchers. To Nashau's good fortunate, his younger brother, Keene, showed tremendous talent at fletching and none at prophecy. Once their father received a letter with the baron's official seal, Nashau's gifts were more warmly accepted.
He had not written his father nor signed his name since his dismissal from the baron's court.
He was escorted from the castle by two large grooms, almost carried, their grips were so tight on his elbows. They tossed out his personal possessions in a burlap sack at his feet. No one of any authority oversaw his sacking; no one he called friend said goodbye. Nashau had been crushed, so ashamed he could not even return home. He hid with his sister in West Bluefield until he could think of something.
He thought of something, and now Prophet Podome sat across from him in the Five Dice Tavern, a thoroughly disreputable establishment. Is there any other kind in the city?
Nashau put away his handkerchief, the tavern being filled with scents more to his liking, roasting pig, beer hops, and human sweat. Unlike home where the walls would be lined with the heads of various animals, the Five Dice hung its taproom tables from hooks, clearing the floor for all kinds of games of chance, most involving dice. Podome and Nashau sat along the wall, holding their mugs in their laps, looking out over the sea of asses pointed at them. Men of various professions on all fours protected their wagers, getting as close to the dice as possible to prevent cheating.
“You come here?” Nashau asked over the din. Podome nodded his head then leaned in close.
“If I have a good day on the street, I keep enough for bread and bring the rest here. Most times I can turn it into a meal, maybe a bed or a bath. I get poor odds because I'm a prophet, but they never accuse me of cheating.”
By the rattle in Podome's cup, Nashau figured he did not have enough to gamble on, though Nashau offered and Podome accepted beer and a meal.
“Do you cheat?” Nashau asked as an afterthought. Podome gave him a wry smile.
“I do not like sleeping on the ground,” he answered. “So many years in the duke's service, my backside has grown accustom to feather and straw. What I wouldn't give for a few hot coals to warm my feet at night...”
Both men fell silent, looking back at the asses. Neither watched the games but remembered the lives lost to them. It was a great mark of success to be taken into a noble household. Most prophets of any skill worked for wealthy merchant families, tauted as so much jewelry to friends, an exhibition of wealth. Rarely does a prophecy lead to direct financial prophet, lest the pending disaster directly apply to one's trade (such as Nashau's prophecy of the locust swarm that would have ravaged farming in the Bluefields if not for his warning and the prompt location of the Chosen One).
“Did you hear about Jophus,” Podome asked. Nashau raises his chin invitingly. He had heard of Jophus, King Lulloyd's royal prophet. In fact, that news was what prompted him to look at other notable soothsayers and the disposition of their most recent prophecies. But this was a good introduction to the topic, and he felt more comfortable allowing Podome to take those first steps.
“He foretold of a child blessed by the Forgotten Gods, kidnapped from its cradle in Brandarbra. If the abduction was not prevented or the child rescued before the next full moon, the queen would die.”
Nashau listened with genuine interest. He had heard the end of the story, but not the details. Details may make the ending bearable, if not palatable.
“What did he do?” Nashau asked.
“Identifying various clues in his vision, he identified the child. He studied the symbolism interwoven in the vision and identified the Chosen One. Too late to prevent the child's abduction, the Chosen One arrived just minutes after the criminals left.” Podome leaned back to Nashau's ear, dropping his voice to the lowest volume possible while still being able to be heard over the room's revelry. “I heard from a mutual friend that there had been enough time to prevent the child's abduction, but the Chosen One insisted on having special garments tailored for his quest.”
Both men rolled their eyes in mutual understanding. One of the most frustrating elements of the profession was the Chosen One who felt himself more important than the quest itself. It happened often. Too many ballads made focusing on the hero rather than the heroism.
Prophecy was truly a misunderstood craft.
Nashau began to understand the magnitude of Jophus' abilities if he could so accurately foretell the abduction of a single child within Brandarbra. The capital city made Tinadian look no larger than East Bluefield.
“And the child?” Nashau asked with a yell. The shooter in the group in front of them just rolled snake eyes, to the delight of half the betters and the dismay of the other half. They shouted various threats and accusations along with more than a few impolite aspersions toward the shooter's mother.
“There was plenty of time before the next full moon. Jophus sent the C.O. into the capital's catacombs.” Nashau raised his eyebrows. The greatest heroes in the kingdom's history all made their names in those catacombs. They spanned the breadth of Brandarbra and into the surrounding hills. Millions of bodies were buried there.
“Did he escape?” Nashau asked. Podome takes a long draw from his beer, occupying his mouth so he doesn't have to speak. Finally, he shakes his head.
“He never emerged nor any man from his retinue.”
“Or the child,” Nashau says. It was not question. The subject of a prophecy could never survive without the direct intervention of the Chosen One. If the C.O. failed, then the child was doomed. He could see the discomfort on Podome's face. There was more to the story. A lost child, a dead C.O., a damned queen, a disgraced prophet, what else could there be to this tale?
Podome saw the question on Nashau's face. “The Chosen One was Crown Prince Lucias.”
“Forgotten gods!”
“When the full moon came and Lucias had not returned, the queen threw herself from her bedroom window. The king ordered Jophus beheaded as he knelt beside his wife's body.”
Saint Jilisha, patroness of prophets, why have you abandoned us?
Nashau set his mug on the ground. He liked the Five Dice. It was a sanctuary from the horribleness of the city beyond. Little sanctuary it offered from such news. The tale had not reached East Bluefield, only news of the death the queen and her son as well as the execution of the royal prophet, offered almost as an afterthought given the magnitude of the two royal deaths. Nashau had taken notice, yet so focused was he on Jophus, that he had not thought to link the execution to the deaths of the queen or prince. The Bluefields was a rural barony and news often came in large chunks, sometimes months out of date.
Nashau felt cold. He wanted to leave. He did not like the tavern. The beer was watered down and the noise hurt his head. Nothing good comes from a city. He clutched his robe in his hand, folding the hem back and forth. He wanted to stand, but felt obligated to offer some excuse for his quick retreat before abandoning Podome to the games. Perhaps if he left the man money to gamble...
“You were sacked,” Podome said. Was that a question? Nashau can't tell. Had news of his own dismissal outpaced him? He would not have guessed that the prophet from East Bluefield would warrant gossip in Tinadian. “The baron sacked you because you named his eldest son and heir as a C.O. to one of your prophecies, didn't you?”
How...?
“How could you know that?” Nashau asks, forgetting his robe hem and his desire to flee.
“And the baron's son died.”
Nashau stares at Podome. When did it grow so quiet in here? Was everyone listening? Watching? No, they played their games. Everything was silent. Everything except Podome.
“I named the duke's eldest son and heir as a C.O. to a prophecy of mine. I fled the palace when he died before the duke's assassins could find me.”
“Assassins?” Nashau asked too loud, drawing the attention of a few nearby men. They looked up from their dice to see what devilry may be afoot, but finding no assassins readily available, they returned to their game and accused the shooter of cheating on general principle.
“Certainly,” Podome said matter-of-factly. “Duke Dagwhit d'Hillsborough was the youngest of seven brothers. They did not give up their inheritance willingly. A man such as he wouldn't think twice of killing me in my sleep.”
“Kill you in your...” Nashau looked down at his mug and the room turned upside down. He tried to keep his balance, but it only pulled him from his chair. Podome grabbed him by the shoulder and forced his head between his knees.
“Breathe,” Podome said calmly. That calm was only more unsettling. How could anyone speak so casually about his death? “Breathe.”
“Bugger breathing,” Nashau snapped from between his knees. “Get me out of here before the assassins come for me too!”
Were they already there? How many of the men in the Five Dice were gamblers and how many were assassins in disguise? Did the duke already know of Nashau's plan and conspire against him from his palace?
“Saint Murta gather me up among your hopeless causes,” Nashau said. “Protect me with your bosom from the evil that surrounds me.”
“Better luck with Rosie, boy, if you're wanting bosoms to protect you,” a nearby gambler said, overhearing Nashau's prayer. The tavern laughed jovially, sparing a few glances from the dice to see who the newest butt of humor was. Nashau sat up and saw the room staring at him. He choked down his gorge, and Podome pushed his head back down between his knees. The tavern laughed louder, and more men turned to join in the sport.
“Rosie's too much for that one,” another yelled. “Best give him Lil' Ben. The boy'll be more gentle to him.”
“Gentle? Give him the dog!”
“The cat!”
“The fleas!”
The tavern roared with laughter. Nashau whispered prayers to Saint Kenniff in hopes the divine executioner might sever their tongues before they humiliate him to death.
Saint Kenniff did not come, but once Nashau stopped providing any new opportunities for sport, the men returned to their dice. Nashau's headache became more a result of blood rushing to his head and less his embarrassment, and he decided it best he sit up. Podome sat patiently waiting for him, drawing much more amusement from Nashau's flushed cheeks than any of the games they had been watching.
“You should not let them get to you so. Surely you have taverns in East Bluefield. Such ribbing is commonplace.” Podome's eyes sparkled with amusement, but hid a genuine note of concern. Nashau felt compelled to defend himself.
“The baron's castle has a commissary. I had no need to dine in the taverns.” Surely it must be the same in the ducal palace.
“However did you find any of your C.O.s without searching the local taverns?” Podome asked. “Surely I am alive today because of the friends I made in places like this while I searched for the most recent Chosen One.”
“I wore the livery of the Barony d'Bluefields,” Nashau said. “None would have risked the barn's wrath to insult one of his ministers.” Nashau felt somewhat ashamed. His father never took him to taverns when he was younger, holding that his mother's food was better than anything served in a taproom. Had he missed some fundamental step in a man's evolution? Surely today's ribbing compensated for any deficiency.
Their food came, delivered on wooden trays that were left with them to make up for the lack of table. Podome found nothing unusual about this and dug into his ham and beans with great voracity. Nashau looked at his tray, fair enough fare, if a bit mundane. The bread was only a day old and the ham was honeyed. He had no appetite. It had fled with Jophus' tale and had not returned.
Nashau holds up the tray toward his colleague and Podome scoops up the plate with filthy hands and pours its contents willy-nilly across his own tray. Nashau realized they had not been provided with utensils, silver, wooden, or otherwise. One more thing for patrons to gamble, he presumed.
“I assure you,” Podome says around a mouthful of beans, “that they meant no offense. You should not let their fun rob you of your appetite.
Nashau looked left, right, left again. No one was watching them. Wait, was that man? No, he was just scratching his ass. He leaned in close, so close his lips almost touched Podome's ear.
“I know why our prophecies are failing,” he said. “I know how to break the curse. And I think the duke will kill me for what I know.”

Chapter 3

Podome had nimble fingers and a talent at acting. He would make a good flimflam man if he didn't have natural talent. Nashau was unnerved at how easily the line was crossed.
Neither man willing to trust the din of the taproom to mask their conversation, Podome joined the closest game, the one with the men who had heckled Nashau. He palmed the proffered dice and replaced them with loaded dice of his own. He then “looked into the future” and predicted the next three shots. His claim squandered any generous odds offered because Nashau was his companion. Few men bet against the prophet. All three shots came up busted and those same men wasted no time in turning against Podome when he predicted the three shots after that.
All this was bankrolled with the money Nashau had saved for his return journey. Was this man really Podome or simply the most expert flimflam man in Tinadian?
The next three shots came up hits, and Podome raked in the winnings, giving up before sportsmanship turned to resentment. He palmed the dice back and threw one last bad shot to let the men win some of their losses back then rented a room for himself and Nashau.
The exited up the stairs to hoots and hollars and both Rosie and Lil' Ben waited for them at the top, just in case the men wanted professionals to aid in their proclivities.
Their services declined—Podome asked Rosie for a raincheck—the two men retired to their room. It was unremarkable, utilitarian, adequate. It had a bed with a straw mattress covered with a threadbare quilt. There was a small table near the window with a stool, large enough for paper and an inkwell. Beside it on the floor was a tin bowl with lukewarm water and a fresh cloth.
Podome would not let Nashau begin until he was clean and mentally prepared for prophecy. Perhaps the dirt made it easier to flimflam people.
The water, the bowl as a whole really, was covered in muck by the time Podome was finished. His pale skin still tinted with the thin layer of filth that cannot be removed by a cloth but required a full bath. His beggar's robe lay discarded in the corner. It turned out that the prophet had one more possession beyond his tin cup. Though his gate was unaffected, he walked with a cotton pillowcase tied around his waist and hung between his legs.
Homeless preyed on one another more frequently and with greater ease than they did passersby. The random stranger on the street was less likely to help one beggar being attacked by another than he was a merchant or tradesman in the same situation.
Folded tightly in on itself, Podome withdrew from the cotton sheath his official vizier's robes. The layers of blue and gold created a majesty and air of authority that lent weight to his prophecies, or would have in the ducal court where they would have been properly laundered and pressed. Here they were wrinkled and stained with body sweat. Still, they were an improvement over his beggar's robes. Both men looked at the filthy heap in the corner. It was writ clear on his face that Podome would rather burn the rags than wear them again, but wearing his vizier's robes in public would send a signal flare to the duke's assassins.
Nashau kicked the robes to the door and out into the hallway. He called Lil' Ben, making sure the boy could not see into the room. Podome so resplendent would be gossip worth a stirling, maybe even a karat if the boy had the gift of haggling. Nashau gave Lil' Ben three pennies and pointed at the rags, sending them to be laundered as best as possible. Podome was almost in tears. He would not—could not—have justified the expense himself, but this generosity was greater than any shone him since his flight from the palace. Nashau started to hand the boy a fourth penny, telling him to darn the robe as well, but Podome stopped him. A beggar with well-knitted robes was not a beggar at all, he pointed out. Truly his pride could not accept such lavishness from a colleague, especially one from a lower court (and thus a lower salary) who was now equally destitute.
Lil' Ben taken off, the two finally settled down to the matter at hand. Podome waved Nashau to the bed. The latter thanked him, but after a brief inspection found it already occupied with lice and assorted other bugs. He took the stool instead. Podome sat on the floor, back against the wall, legs folded under himself, prophet-style. Nashau had heard that some of the best soothsayers would only use their gifts while seated in such a position, something about centering themselves or some other nonsense. He had tried it once himself in the privacy of his own bed chambers. He had felt anything but centered. He checked every few seconds to make sure no one was watching him engaged in such foolishness. He had never needed any centering. His visions had come well enough on their own. Perhaps it was all part of the show, one more aspect of the professional flimflam.
“So,” Podome began, “I understand why Duke Dagwhit wants to kill me. But why do you think he wants to kill you?”
Straight to business, not even a little smalltalk to ease them into it. It was for the best, Nashau finally concluded. They had only rented the room for an hour and spent the first third of that dealing with Podome's cleanliness.
Cleanliness was next to saintliness.
“Have you foretold any quests since your flight?” Nashau asked. “Have you had any genuine visions? Named any C.O.s?” He wished he had stayed standing. Already he fought the urge to pace around the room. He played with the hem of his robe again, a nervous habit that was starting to fray the weaker threads.
“One,” Podome admitted slowly. “I did not look for its C.O. By then I had heard news of our fraternal curse and felt his end would be much the same as all the other Chosen Ones.” Unlike common confessions, this admission seemed to weigh heavier on Podome than when he kept it secret.
“You most likely saved his life,” Nashau said, nodding his head. It took professional dispassion to endure the death of a Chosen One in the best of times. Now it was easy to fall into despair and Nashau desperately wanted to offer his own confession. Now that he had started, he did not want to stop. He would not be able to start again.
“After the baron's...after.” Nashau stops, grinds his teeth, then starts again. “After my dismissal I fled to my sister's home in West Bluefield. Her husband is a good man and not one to deny her or her family. He would and did give me shelter while I figured out what to do next.”
Podome nodded approvingly. This was not the first downturn for prophets. The craft would have been lost generations ago if not for the compassion of people like Nashau's sister and her husband.
“I was no loafer, mind you,” Nashau said. “I earned my meal just like every other man in the household.” Podome shrugged. He had never lived outside the city, he admitted, and had no idea what farm life entailed. He was of the frank opinion that a worthwhile prophet had already any room and board he may require. Nashau did not explain how such logic would not work on a farm, but continued with his story. “I was pitching hay in the barn with two of my nephews when a vision came on me. It was unlike any vision I have had before. It did not show me a great coming or an impending disaster. It showed me the faces of boys already dead.”
Podome turns his head, spurring Nashau on. Good, he had never had a vision such as this either. Prophecies generally fell into two general “herald of a great hero” or “harbinger of doom” categories.
“They were all young, clearly of high birth, and among them I saw Crown Prince Lucias and the Baron's own son Dadam.” Now Nashau did stand and began his circuit around the room. “I thought it metaphorical at first, a sign that all those boys would have the same fate as Dadam until we received news of the crown prince's death. And then the duke's son. This was not prophecy, it was revelation, a vision of what had already taken place.”
He stopped then and waited for Podome to say something. If Nashau had admitted this in West Bluefield, they would have burned him for witchcraft. Seers were not held in the same regard as soothsayers. They dug up the ghosts of the past and sowed disharmony. Nashau was not a seer, witch, or warlock.
Was he?
“Continue,” was all Podome said. And Nashau did, not offering the seated man any more time to change his mind and level an accusatory finger.
“The vision skewed in more traditional directions after that, various symbols and such. The usual stuff. Until I deciphered the identity of the Chosen One. No easy feat, mind you. It took me days after the vision to figure everything out. More than once I had to go to the village clerk's office and check various deeds and titles and ask questions the man could answer only because he was older than creation.”
Podome laughed gently and Nashau huffed heavily, having given his explanation with one long breath.
“And what did you find out, soothsayer, after so much contemplation and research?” Podome asked. His amusement wasn't condescending but sympathetic. No one but another prophet truly appreciated just how much work prophesying was.
“Dagwhit is not the duke,” Nashau said bluntly. Podome choked on his smile and lurched forward, losing his seating and tumbling forward when his legs failed to uncross. Nashau offered him a hand, but it was waved away. The man so friendly a moment before seemed unwilling to even touch Nashau now.
“What did you say,” Podome said. The hope on his face was unmistakable. He was giving Nashau a chance to change his story. But why should he? Podome was no longer in the duke's service and should this prophecy be completed, he would have the opportunity to resume his old post with a new duke who would not blame him for the death of his heir.
“Duke Dagwhit's eldest brother...”
“Jepe?”
“He lives.”
“Lives?”
“Albeit under an assumed identity somewhere in a large metropolis.” Nashau stopped his pacing and stood above the prostrate Podome, pointing at various places and buildings he had seen in his vision, as if Podome could revisit the prophecy with him. “I have it narrowed to four cities. It's most certainly Andarian. The architecture is unmistakable. None of the other kingdoms have buildings so large built with our architecture.”
Podome sat back up, leaving his legs out straight for balance. He nodded his head, unable to say anything. Nashau's logic was not wrong.
“It was a port city,” Nashau continued, “which limits it further. Brandarbra, Tinadian, and Jarol.”
“Don't forget the Port cities,” Podome said, finding his voice. “Eastport, Westport, Newport...”
Nashau shook his head, but smiled, happy they were on the same train of thought.
“The docks in Eastport are too small; Westport's burned in a great fire last year. I stopped in Newport on my way to Tinadian. I could not match any of the buildings visible from the docks to those I saw in my vision.” Nashau held out a hand and helped Podome to his feet. He wanted to pace again but didn't want to trip over his colleague's legs. “It's definitely one of the three coastal cities.”
Nashau paced; Podome tapped his foot. Both considered the difficulty of finding a man that did not want to be found in the three largest cities in Andaria. It was a daunting a task, but was it an impossible one? To break the prophets' curse and avert another Age of Reciprocity would earn them both everlasting fame, not to mention the more practical benefit of restoring confidence in their beleaguered profession.
“What were you thinking?” Podome snapped, his voice rising until it squeaked. “You planned on going to the ducal palace and informing Dagwhit that he was not duke of Hillsborough? What did you think he would do, say thank you and abdicate his seat?” Podome's temper flared like an angry dog. Nashau took an instinctive step back.
“I had no intention of telling Dagwhit anything until I had located his brother and broken the curse,” Nashau said, hurt by the unexpected tongue lashing. “I came to see you.”
“So that I might aid you in deposing my liege. Did our correspondence make us so familiar that would have unemployed me?”
What was happening? Nashau flustered, wringing his hands nervously. They had been making progress. They were working toward a solution. He had had no intention of getting Podome the sack. He had presumed that a man of his prestige would be employed by one duke as much as the next!
“Take my job will you!” Podome roared. He stepped forward, fists balled and shaking.
“Take your...no! No, I didn't want your job,” Nashau pleaded. “I hate the city.”
“And insult the place of my birth in the very same breath? Have you no decency, sir?” Podome swung, connecting with the top of Nashau's head. Prophets are not fighters. If there is a profession farther away fighter than prophet, it was a well-kept secret. Podome struck Nashau with the force a small boy might hit his younger sister. It was the shock, more than the force of the blow or any kind of concussion as a result of it that caused Nashau's knees to buckle. No one had ever struck him before, at least not since he was a small lad and his father took a belt to him for leaving the chicken coop unlocked and losing all the birds to a hungry fox.
Nashau looked up at his colleague and correspondent, a man he had greatly admired, one who he had invested a great deal of hope that he might survive the political perils of his prophecy and rescue the seven kingdoms from this curse. His eyes watered and his lips quivered.
“Please don't hit me,” he asked in a soft voice. The meekness of it pop's Podome's temper like an inflated sheep's stomach. The fury drained out of him and his strength left with it. He drops to the floor with a thump, lowering his face into his palms. They were quiet for some time, Nashau too scared too look away, Podome too ashamed to look up.
“I'm sorry,” Podome finally said from behind his hands. “I blamed you for everything that happened to me, but my fate played out long before you arrived.”
“I am sorry too,” Nashau said. “I did not think...I just assumed...I'm sorry.” He wiped the tears from his eyes before they spilled to his cheek and robbed him of what little masculinity he retained. “Can you help me?”