Seeker

The Young Dread stood with the Middle Dread far from the cottages and the barns. They were atop a small hill within the forest, their backs against tree trunks, their cloaks wrapped around them, all but invisible. From her vantage point she could see the homes burning—all of them, except the cabins of the Dreads.

There was a dull throbbing in her cheek where the Middle had struck her. She’d arrived at his cottage after her furious run, but before her mouth could open to form the words explaining that they were under attack, his fist had found her cheek. She’d begun her explanation anyway. Within moments, at the Middle Dread’s orders, they had gathered up every one of their weapons and melted into the forest.

A woman was yelling down on the commons. It was the woman with red hair—Fiona was her name. The Young Dread watched as two men beat out the fire in her hair and lifted her onto one of the horses. Maud threw her sight and hearing, watched closely as one of the men struck Fiona, and the young man she recognized—despite his mask and the harsh metallic sound of his altered voice—tied up her hands.

“Don’t hit her!” that one said in his strange voice. “I don’t want to hurt her!” Then to Fiona, “Please, please stop struggling. I only need Briac.”

“I wish to help them,” the Young Dread said. The words came out of her rhythmically, sedately, just as her body walked and her mind thought. Her voice did not seem to carry emotion, even though she felt it. “Several of them are sworn Seekers.”

The Middle’s arm swung around and slapped her other cheek. She had known he would do this. In her altered time sense, she had watched his arm coming toward her like a storm in the distance. She could have moved out of the way, but there was no reason. He would find another time to hit her, and more severely, if she did not accept his slap now.

She desired to help the inhabitants of the estate—especially if she could do so without harming the apprentice in the mask. But this was not their duty, in fact. Sworn Seekers were meant to have autonomy. The duty of the Dreads was to observe, to oversee the oaths of new Seekers, and only in certain circumstances to become involved. What was happening now—a squabble over control of the athame by two families who could make equal claims—was not their domain. Even her old master would agree with the Middle on that. Their duty was only to protect the athame of the Dreads, which hung safely inside her companion’s cloak, close to the hand he had just used to strike her.

It was not their duty to interfere. Yet they had interfered in the past. A thought came to the surface slowly: A woman with light brown hair, a boy hiding under the floor … They were not supposed to interfere, and yet they had. And look what happens. Out on the commons, the young apprentice in the mask was yelling orders to the others. The boy becomes a man, and the man is angry …Upstodatee from Novel(D)ra/m/a.O(r)g