Blind Vision

By Marguerite Krause

Phillipe possesses a rare and dangerous gift: the ability to see the myriad possible futures. Called back from exile to a beleaguered court, Phillipe reluctantly agrees to serve the young duke as his official seer and attempt to guide the duchy into a future of prosperity and peace. Unfortunately, most of his visions of the coming spring reveal nothing but bloodshed and destruction. He needs the cooperation of the duke’s sister, Lady Zulieka, to put the duchy on the path to survival, but Zuli doesn’t believe a word Phillipe says. The danger increases as Phillipe seeks vision after perilous vision, and Zuli sets her own desperate, opposing plans into action.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marguerite Krause
• Release date: Jan 3, 2012
• ISBN: 9781452439495

Marguerite Krause

Most of my favorite activities involve words and language. In addition to writing, I work as a freelance copyeditor, helping other writers to sharpen their skills. I also love the theatre, film, and television - any vehicle for telling a good story! I have a masters degree in music and perform with a local bagpipe band, and I've held a variety of jobs over the years: short-order cook, day care provider, ice cream packer, and driver for a courier company. My other published writing includes several essays on popular culture and a two-volume epic fantasy novel cowritten with my good friend and New York Times bestselling author, Susan Sizemore.

Book preview

Seeing the future is easy—changing it is next to impossible. Phillipe possesses a rare, dangerous gift: the ability to see the myriad possible futures. Called back from exile to a beleaguered court, Phillipe foresees disaster for the duchy and its people, unless he can guide the young Duke onto an alternate path. With most choices leading to bloodshed and destruction, the duchy’s only hope lies with the Lady Zuli—who refuses to believe a word Phillipe says. The danger increases as Phillipe makes one perilous psychic journey after another, and Zuli sets her own desperate, opposing plans into motion.

BLIND VISION

Marguerite Krause

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Published by Marguerite Krause at Smashwords

Copyright 2012 Marguerite Krause

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Chapter One

Metal glinted in the pale spring sunshine—swords, knives, the polished rings on the tack of the oncoming horses. The invaders swarmed up the hill toward the house, sweeping the duke’s guard aside like chaff. Gouts of blood splashed onto the sweet young grass, bright flowers of carnage, as the defenders fought and fell and died.

In the blink of an eye, a gray downpour replaced the sunlight. A different battle, a different day. This time the maimed, the dying, and the dead lay sprawled across the front steps of the ducal residence. The young duke fought like a madman in front of the barred doors, his yellow hair plastered to his skull by the rain. At his side, an older man staggered backward and clasped his hands over the gash in his midsection in a vain attempt to stop his guts from spilling into the mud.

Another day, another variation of the same hopeless battle. In this one, the attackers set fire to the village first, and blooded their swords on the cursing, sobbing inhabitants until the duke’s guards arrived to take up the hopeless fight. At this very spot, where the road entered Albinville, a laughing man separated the young duke’s head from his shoulders,

Something wrong, Your Honor?

The sergeant’s voice snapped Phillipe back to the present. He had reined his horse to a halt at the edge of the common, his escort gathered uncertainly around him. Goats and cattle grazed on either side of the road and a wedge of geese honked overhead, reinforcing the utter normalcy of the scene. No armies, no swords, no blood.

Not yet.

Just thinking, Sergeant Hervé. The visions taunted Phillipe, each grimmer than the one before. He shoved them back below the surface of his memory and urged his horse forward onto the deceptively peaceful common. I’m finished now. Let’s go on.

* * *

Hervé’s back.

The kitchen fell silent. Zuli lifted the bowl of peas from the shelf and moved to the pantry doorway. From that safe vantage point she could see most of the kitchen, including the wide double doors that led to the rest of the House.

Cook’s endlessly busy hands had paused. Her son, Alain, stood in the arched entry, thumbs hooked in his wide leather belt, his scowl deeper than usual. Cook pushed up the sleeves of her faded periwinkle undertunic and returned most of her attention to the pie crust she was rolling. Go on, Alain. You’re bursting to tell me. Who’d he bring then?

I don’t know—but I can go down to the stable yard and see.

Cook snorted. Not likely now, with extra mouths to feed.

Ma!

Later. You’ve work here.

Alain stomped into the room. Although he was nearly eighteen, Alain had yet to acquire a wife. He blamed the delay on the sorry state of the duchy. Zuli suspected it had more to do with his sour disposition. The bench scraped across the stone floor as he took his seat at the table and plucked a turnip out of the pile. It’s not General Pratt. The guard on the wall would’ve recognized him. Alain jabbed his paring knife into the white root. Probably another village elder, full of complaints. Who needs that?

Cook glanced at him. Mind what you’re doing. Alain frowned, but his short, angry knife strokes slowed to a reasonable speed.

Zuli drew back into the shadows. The thought of disappearing entirely for a few hours tempted her. Unfortunately, she had nowhere to go, no way to escape from the duke’s plans, however much she disagreed with them—and she had disagreed, enthusiastically and at length, the moment he told her about them. It hadn’t done any good. She was his sister, and chatelaine of his house, but that didn’t mean she could make him see a truth he preferred to ignore.

Cook abandoned the half-finished circle of dough and went to the window, wiping her hands on a corner of her once-white apron. Watery sunlight washed the wide wooden sill and caught in the specks of flour that dusted her forearms. I don’t hear anything.

They’re probably still crossing the common, Alain said.

The duke’s steward entered the kitchen. Michel Pfingsten was a handsome man—in a stocky, middle-aged sort of way. His patience and unshakable confidence in the duke had kept the household staff at their jobs, despite their ever-diminishing hopes for the duchy’s future. Quite right, he said, answering Alain. If you hurry, you can watch their arrival from the gate.

Half-peeled turnip in hand, Alain looked hopefully at his mother. Cook returned to her worktable and picked up the rolling pin. Do you know who Hervé’s brought back with him, Monsieur Pfingsten?

Knowing the sergeant, he’s brought back exactly the man His Grace sent him to find. Have you seen Mademoiselle? We have to prepare for our visitors.

She was here a moment ago.

Zuli hugged the green-glazed bowl to her chest and drew back into the shadows. She had never wanted to be chatelaine to the ducal household. Her ambition, such as it was, had been to live in peace and obscurity on the family estate at Arvelo until the Goddess called her. Away from that sanctuary, the goddess mark emblazoned across her face guaranteed that no one could forget who she was, or feel at ease in her presence.

At his mother’s brusque nod, Alain hurried past the steward and out the door. What do you mean, prepare? Cook asked. The house is in good order, considering. You inspected the guest suite below His Grace’s chambers only yesterday.

Pfingsten approached Cook’s work table, his hands clasped behind his back. We may need it later. For these particular guests, though, we can provide something more suitable.

More suitable?

The steward raised his voice. Mademoiselle?

Here. Zuli stepped out of the pantry, into the light, and endured the torrent of swiftly concealed reactions: from Cook, pity; from Pfingsten, a stern resolve to be kind. They pretended to look directly at her; she pretended not to notice the way their eyes refused to focus anywhere near her face.

Were any of their belongings still in storage? Pfingsten asked.

Everything on your list. I aired the rooms yesterday.

Rooms? Which rooms? Cook demanded. Whose belongings? She crossed her arms over her narrow chest, the rolling pin resting against her shoulder like a guardsman’s pike. You do know who Hervé found, don’t you?

We’re opening the west wing, second floor. The ducal seer’s private suite.

No one’s used those rooms for years.

That won’t matter to Phillipe.

Phillipe! Eyes widening, Cook set the rolling pin down right in the middle of the unfinished pie shell. Oh, no. His Grace wouldn’t….

His Grace has. Pfingsten sat down on the bench and patted the space beside him. It will work. You’ll see.

Cook ignored the invitation. I find that hard to believe, after all these years.

I don’t.

Hope glinted in Pfingsten’s eye. Not a good idea. Zuli said, Did either of you know Claude Hansard?

Cook nodded without looking at her. The old duke’s seer. Yes, I remember him, Mademoiselle.

Which is why you shouldn’t be surprised, Pfingsten said, that Claude’s son has been summoned to be the new duke’s seer.

Cook remained stubbornly unimpressed. You know as well as anyone what the old duke had to say about seers.

And you know as well as anyone that we have a new duke, who’s doing what he thinks is best for Montrouge.

But, Phillipe—

—is a grown man now, not the boy you and I remember.

Cook’s lips thinned. You might have warned me.

It wasn’t my decision. His Grace wasn’t certain that Phillipe would allow himself to be found. The only reason he took me into his confidence was so that I could help Mademoiselle prepare the seer’s rooms. No one bothered to remove the bigger pieces of furniture after the Hansards left, and we found some of their personal belongings in the west storeroom. He got up and beckoned to Zuli. I sent to the stable for Lisle and Robert; they’ll bring up the last of it. Don’t worry; you’ll have plenty of time.

* * *

I wish we had more time, Phillipe said.

Roscoe clucked to his horse, moving it closer to Phillipe’s roan gelding. Around them the last houses of the village had given way to cow pasture, affording Roscoe his first uninterrupted view of Albin House. The complex of gray stone buildings, the heart of the Albin family estate and the seat of power in the Duchy of Montrouge, was every bit as impressive as he’d imagined it would be. The house itself occupied the top of the hill, its clear windows winking in the late morning sunlight; clusters of outbuildings, rough-cut fieldstone and weathered wood, flanked it on the east and west. To the south, behind the house, Roscoe could just make out one edge of a kitchen garden. A high wall, constructed from the same ebony-flecked granite as the house, encircled the base of the hill, its single set of heavy oaken gates open to the road.

I thought you were looking forward to getting here, Roscoe said.

A wry smile lightened his master’s sober expression. Looking forward to it and being ready for it are two different things entirely. Isn’t that right, Sergeant?

In front of them Hervé twisted in his saddle, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his plain, weather-worn features. I don’t think I could look forward to anything I wasn’t ready for.

Do you have to see the duke right away? Roscoe asked his master. Maybe he’ll be too busy. Maybe he’s not even here.

His Grace is in residence. Hervé pointed to the lone blue-and-white pennant fluttering from a pole atop the gate. And he’s not one to keep a visitor waiting.

At a nod from Hervé, the two guardsmen who had been their escort kicked their horses to a canter and rode ahead across the broad common. This isn’t like market day in Belleau, lad, Phillipe said. There’ll be no chance of losing ourselves in a crowd. They’re expecting us—expecting me. I’m as ready as I’ll ever be, I suppose. He sighed loudly. Which isn’t ready at all. Ah, well. Sooner begun, sooner ended. That’s the way to look at it.

They drew closer to the gates. Roscoe gazed up at the walls, blank, ominous, unscalable. He thought he saw a flash of movement at the top. The sergeant was right; the duke would have received plenty of warning of their arrival.

They passed through the gates and onto the grounds of the ducal estate. Roscoe straightened in his saddle, striving to copy his master’s erect posture. It wasn’t easy, even after days of practice. Roscoe shifted from one hip to the other, trying to ease his stiff knees and sore backside. Phillipe didn’t look stiff at all, though he was no more used to riding long distances than Roscoe was. The seer rocked gently with the roan’s ambling gait, unperturbed by the tangle the breeze had made of his hair, or the sunburn on his long nose. No longer a youth—he had turned thirty in the spring—Phillipe managed to be dignified without becoming stuffy. He drove Roscoe to distraction sometimes, but Roscoe put up with the occasional aggravation. It was part of the adventure of serving a seer.

Half the village had gathered to observe their arrival; Phillipe’s admonition to the contrary, the sloping meadow looked much like a market fair. Adults chatted idly together, the men in rope- or leather-belted tunics of rust, olive, or moss over beige or buff breeches, the white-aproned women with their undertunics of mint-green, violet, mustard, or rose scattered among them like late flowers in an autumn field. A handful of children raced in and out among the clumps of adults, with hardly a glance to spare for the riders as they passed. Friendly voices called greetings to Hervé; wherever Roscoe looked he met unashamedly curious stares. Phillipe studied the villagers as openly as they studied him, his expression pensive. Roscoe couldn’t tell if he recognized anyone or not.

Their guardsmen were waiting for them when they entered the stable yard, ready to take their horses. Weeds pushed up through the uneven dirt and flies buzzed around an untidy dung heap near the stable wall. A manure cart with a broken wheel occupied one corner of the yard, the center of an agglomeration of barrels, pitchforks, rakes, and feed buckets. The stable roof was badly in need of shingles. Roscoe’s awe at being inside the private estate of the Duke of Montrouge faltered and collapsed.

Phillipe didn’t seem to notice their shabby surroundings. He dismounted, handed his reins to Hervé, and started across the yard toward the house, where a side door stood open at the top of a short flight of stairs. A dark-haired man waited in the doorway.

Easy, boy, one of the guardsmen said, steadying Roscoe as he slid too quickly out of the saddle. You didn’t come all this way to break a leg now.

Is that the duke?

Goddess, no. The duke doesn’t meet guests in the stable yard. That’s His Grace’s steward, Monsieur Pfingsten. Go on; your master’s waiting for you.

Roscoe hurried to join Phillipe. Together they approached the steward and stopped at the foot of the stairs. A narrow crack marred the second step; flakes of chipped stone had been swept mostly out of sight in the corner between the stairs and the house. The door frame was weathered, graying wood showing through what might once have been a coat of white paint.

Hello, Michel, Phillipe said.

A smile lifted one corner of the steward’s mouth. Roscoe should have known at once he wasn’t the duke. This man was at least ten years older than Phillipe, sturdily built, with strands of gray visible in his otherwise jet-black hair. His dark blue overtunic, edged in black, was no finer than any Phillipe owned. In the name of His Grace, Bernard d’Albin, Duke of Montrouge, welcome to Albin House. The steward beckoned them forward. Please, come inside. His Grace is expecting you.

They followed Pfingsten down a wide corridor. The only light came from a row of small windows high up on the outer wall. Tilting his head back, Roscoe examined the ceiling. After seeing the condition of the stables he no longer knew what to expect of Albin House itself, but to his relief, the roof—or at least this portion of it—seemed to be intact.

Near the middle of the hallway they came to the steward’s office. A scarred desk crouched in the center of the room, its surface strewn with ledgers, boxes, a tray of ink pots and pens, and what looked like the pieces of a broken bit. Behind the desk sat a massive chair, its padding worn and faded.

Pfingsten closed the door behind them. It’s been a long time, Phillipe. Or should I call you Honored Seer?

Phillipe winced. Only when absolutely necessary. Besides, look at you. He gestured at the cluttered desk. Chief Steward, of all things.

Didn’t think I had it in me?

Didn’t think you wanted it. Groundskeeper, yes, or stable master. You always hated bookkeeping.

I’m also very good at it—or so His Grace keeps telling me. What about you? You look well.

Life in Belleau suits us. Doesn’t it, Roscoe?

Yes, sir.

Pfingsten’s dark eyes turned to him. Roscoe?

My servant, my scribe, my invaluable assistant; my keeper, if you like. Remember old Lucien, who worked with my father?

I remember.

Tell me about the duke. Does he really want me here?

He wouldn’t have sent for you if he didn’t.

What decided him, exactly?

You don’t know?

The mountains have been full of rumors since Maurice died. It’s not easy to know what to believe.

Last spring His Grace went to pledge his loyalty to the king. During what was supposed to be a confidential session of the King’s Council, one of His Majesty’s seers described a vision of Albin House in flames, Bernard dead, and another man Duke of Montrouge.

Phillipe’s expression didn’t change. When will it happen?

Before next midsummer.

What does Bernard think of this prediction?

He wants to defy it, of course. But word got out, and now there’s talk that he should step down, for the good of the duchy.

Talk? Among the other dukes?

Pfingsten nodded. Not to mention a few of Montrouge’s barons, and a good many common folk. His Grace needs a way to calm their fears and regain their trust.

Therefore, he decided to reinstate the position of ducal seer. Does he understand what he’s asking, and what he might get?

He knows he needs help, and he’s running out of places to look for it. As for what he’s asking, what having a ducal seer will mean…how could he understand? Folding his arms, Pfingsten leaned back against his desk. He hardly remembers your father, and the old duke certainly wasn’t going to explain vision-seeking to him. You tell me, Phillipe. Can you save Montrouge?

I don’t know. Just because I can see the future doesn’t guarantee I’ll be able to see a way to change it.

Have you seen it? Our future?

I think, Phillipe replied slowly, I’d better save that answer for the duke. When can I speak to him?

Now. He’s in the great hall.

I know the way. Phillipe opened the door. Roscoe, stay out of mischief until I get back.

Yes, sir.

After Phillipe had gone the steward pushed himself away from the desk and fixed a speculative gaze on Roscoe. Do you have to stay idle to stay out of mischief, or can I give you some work to keep you busy?

I wouldn’t mind something to do. As soon as he said it Roscoe wondered if he was about to become better acquainted with the stables, the scullery, or some other drab corner of the ducal estate. Then again, the prospect of just standing here, alone in an unfamiliar house, was worse than the thought of a make-work chore or two.

Follow me. They left the steward’s office and turned right along the corridor, away from the door to the stable yard, then right again past the base of a curving staircase. The corridor opened into a wider passageway, with doors on both sides and yet another cross corridor leading off to the right. Roscoe, let me ask you a question.

Sir?

What do people say in Belleau, about the duchy? About the future of the house of Albin?

Roscoe fidgeted with the leather thong that tied his purse to his belt. He’d speculated for hours on end, in the privacy of his thoughts and in conversation with Phillipe, about what they would find when they reached Albin House. He’d prepared himself to be surrounded by strangers, to face curiosity or indifference or even hostility—but he’d never expected to find someone interested in the insignificant village he and Phillipe called home. News travels slowly in the mountains, he began. Most things we don’t hear about until greatmonths later. We had word of the old duke’s death within a lesmonth, but that was a special case. Sometimes there’s talk, a few of the men wanting to join the ducal guard, but nothing ever happens.

Why not?

Lambing season, or a storm, or a barn to be built. Loyalty to the House of Albin couldn’t compete with the needs of people’s flocks and families. Not sure how much the steward understood of life in a small village, Roscoe concluded, It’s easier all around to leave the duchy’s problems to the duke.

Is that why Phillipe didn’t come back as soon as he heard that Maurice was dead? Why he waited until the new duke sent for him?

I don’t know, sir.

The black eyebrows lowered, then relaxed. No. No reason you should.

A short corridor opened on their left. The pungent odor of cheese and fried onions set Roscoe’s mouth watering. He memorized the location of the kitchen for later. Monsieur? Can I ask you something?

Whatever you like.

Roscoe silently apologized to his master if he was about to get himself in trouble, but the steward seemed genuinely agreeable and Roscoe’s curiosity had been growing for days. Sergeant Hervé says that no one in Albin House or Albinville knows who Phillipe is, or what he can do. Is that true?

Not entirely. A few of us knew Phillipe when he was growing up here. We were all younger then—too young and unimportant to be aware of what passes between a duke and his seer. In that way the sergeant’s right; no one’s sure what your master is capable of. Not even His Grace.

You mean how far he can see into the future, or how clearly? Things like that?

They crossed another wide corridor leading off to the right and came to the foot of a second staircase, this one consisting of two straight flights connected by a landing. From the next floor Roscoe could hear voices, a man and a girl, and what sounded like a large crate being dragged over stone flagging. Things like that, the steward agreed. He pointed up the stairs. That’s where you’re needed, Roscoe. Present yourself to Jean Monbiot, the butler. Tell him you’re the seer’s manservant, sent by me to arrange your master’s quarters.

Halfway to the landing, Roscoe paused and looked back. You’re not coming?

Later. I’ll tell Phillipe where to find you. Without waiting for an answer the steward moved on, disappearing from view.

Monbiot, the butler, Roscoe muttered. One look at me and he’ll know I’m not a manservant. Not that I want to be a manservant. If those are Phillipe’s quarters, I wonder where they plan to put me? Guess there’s one way to find out. Brace yourself, Roscoe lad—and be quiet, before somebody hears you. Clamping his mouth shut and squaring his shoulders, he trotted up the stairs.

Chapter Two

Holding the lantern above her head, Zuli scanned the storeroom one last time. The yellow light, dimmed by the dust they had raised, revealed a wardrobe with one door missing, two bed frames, a collection of broken-backed chairs and, draped on the furniture or piled thoughtlessly on the floor, a depressing number of faded, ravel-edged rugs and wall hangings.

That’s all, I think.

Behind her, Robert said, Then we’ll be getting back to the stable, Mademoiselle.

Very good. Thank you for your help.

She didn’t move until she heard the solid clumping of the men’s boots recede past the turn in the corridor. Robert had the knack of speaking to her without actually looking at her, acquired and perfected during his years of service in her family’s household at Arvelo. Lisle, a lifelong resident of Albinville, had less experience with her and therefore less tolerance for direct conversation. Her brother wanted her to insist on the respect and obedience due his chatelaine. She preferred to settle for cooperation, and as little discomfort as possible for all concerned.

As she closed and locked the door Pfingsten’s voice, echoing along the bare corridor, said, Finished already?

Yes, sir, Lisle replied.

Tell Olivier I want him to clean out another half-dozen stalls.

More visitors, sir?

I wouldn’t be surprised. Sharply, now.

The tap of the steward’s footsteps, brisk and businesslike, grew louder as he turned the corner. Zuli hung her ring of keys back on her belt. The footsteps slowed, stopped. That didn’t take long.

There wasn’t much down here. Zuli extinguished the lantern and replaced it in its niche. Like Lisle, Pfingsten had known her less than half a year. Unlike Lisle, the steward hid his unease so well that she could almost imagine it wasn’t there. A chest of bedding, some rugs, one undamaged tapestry. The boxes, and a large crate, were all books.

Only one tapestry? Pfingsten’s fierce eyebrows drew together, the scowl directed not at her but back along the corridor. They’ll need more with winter coming.

Only one fit to hang today. I sent the others and all but two of the rugs to the sewing room. One of the wall hangings may be too rotted to save. The rest are frayed or mildewed in small sections, easily mended.

You and Simone spend too much time mending.

I’m sorry, Monsieur Pfingsten, but you said it yourself. Winter is coming. We have to mend what needs mending or do without.

I wasn’t criticizing you, Mademoiselle. You shouldn’t have to do any of the needlework at all. This is the ducal residence. You should have a room full of needleworkers under your command, creating new tapestries, not mending old ones.

Another fine dream. The steward nurtured a persistent fantasy of Albin House renewed, the ducal family respected, the power and prestige of the entire duchy restored. Too bad daydreams didn’t get rugs mended or yarn spun or food on the table. Pfingsten and his duke were two of a kind: impractical to a fault. Zuli kept the thought to herself, and said only, Yes, Monsieur.

He cleared his throat. Not a particularly useful observation, was it? We don’t have a proper staff, and complaining about it only wastes time neither of us has to spare. My apologies, Mademoiselle.

Fixing her gaze on the lavender satin toes of her soft shoes, she started down the corridor. That’s all right.

He walked with her along the quiet hallway, around the corner, and into the central section of the house. When will the seer wish to inspect his quarters? Zuli asked when they reached the wide passage that ran across the back of the main building, connecting it and both wings to the kitchen.

Soon. Pfingsten indicated the nearest serving entrance to the great hall with a meaningful tilt of his head. He went in to speak with His Grace a few minutes ago. For a long moment the steward contemplated the closed, dark-paneled door. Well. We’ll know soon enough. Excuse me, Mademoiselle. Without quite looking in her direction he strode off toward the east wing.

Zuli hesitated. She had so many things to do. One set of visitors at a time was strain enough on the house’s limited resources; now it seemed the steward was expecting the arrival of even more guests. Where should she begin? Sewing room? West wing guest quarters? Kitchen? None of those options appealed to her. For nearly two lesmonths, ever since Sergeant Hervé departed for Belleau, she’d been awaiting—dreading—this day. To spend it hidden behind several years’ accumulation of needlework, or ensconced in a corner of the kitchen, seemed hardly fitting.

Simone hurried out of the kitchen with a teapot in each hand. Good afternoon, Mademoiselle. She bobbed her head in greeting, eyes averted.

Teapots?

Monsieur Monbiot sent for them, Mademoiselle.

I see. Jean must have gotten the seer’s chambers in satisfactory order, or he wouldn’t be spending time on teapots.

Have you seen him yet, Mademoiselle? the girl continued, curiosity overcoming her usual shyness.

The seer? Zuli guessed. No.

He’s in the great hall right now.

So I understand. Zuli felt her interest stir in response to Simone’s eagerness, and made her decision. You go help Monsieur Monbiot. I’ll be along in a few minutes.

A delighted smile flashed across the servant’s face, quickly hidden behind another obedient nod. Yes, Mademoiselle.

Zuli turned left, into the west branch of the corridor that surrounded the great hall. When she reached the front foyer it was empty, the hall’s wide double doors closed. All the better; she didn’t have to worry about the duke seeing her as she made for the shadowed niche on the northeast corner of the hall. Within, a narrow stone spiral wound up to the second floor. Bunching her skirts in one hand, she ran up the steps and emerged into the clutter of the musicians’ gallery. Forgotten banners, more chairs in need of mending, and dusty music racks were shoved against the walls closest to the stair. She slipped soundlessly among the neglected items, keeping to the shadows, until she reached her favorite vantage point.

From her position at the end of the gallery Zuli could see the length of the cavernous room. Her baby brother, head of the House of Albin, Duke of Montrouge, stood in solitary splendor on the dais at the south end of the great hall. The long, snug sleeves of his undertunic—soft, snowy cambric—were visible beneath an overtunic of summer-weight, aquamarine lambswool. For this special occasion he’d donned his best surcote, made of floor-length cobalt-blue damask lined with ermine; from his belt, a wide silver chain studded with sapphires, hung the family’s two-century-old ceremonial sword. Despite long hours devoted to training with the guard captain, Bernard remained as slender as a youth. His straight, flaxen hair and guileless visage contributed to the impression that he was younger than his twenty years. It would have helped if he could grow a proper beard.

You see the difficulty, Your Grace.

Zuli switched her attention to the speaker, and frowned. She’d heard tales of seers throughout her childhood—most of them, admittedly, about Claude Hansard, once the trusted advisor, later the banished enemy of Uncle Maurice. In the stories the seer was always a terrifying figure of mystery and power; in her child’s mind she’d imagined wild white hair, flashing eyes, and a thunderous voice suitable for exchanging shouted insults with the old duke. Whether she’d once heard Claude Hansard described that way or had invented the image for herself over the years, his son looked nothing like what she’d expected. This seer—alleged seer—was tall and thin, his voice a pleasant tenor. His brown, dirt-stained overtunic and kersey breeches could have belonged to a carpenter or dairyman; his calf-high leather boots were scratched and worn.

But that’s the only way to change the future, he continued. You’ll have to think the unthinkable—and then do it.

Bernard fingered the wisps of golden hair adorning his chin. How long will it take? To assure success.

I can’t assure success. I see the future, Bernard. I don’t control it. He spread his arms, the gesture at once humble and decisive. I’m not sure anyone can control it.

I never could get straight answers out of you.

Zuli blinked; informality from her dignified brother? Her surprise deepened when Bernard sighed, gathered up his surcote, and sat down on the edge of the dais.

The duke beckoned his guest forward. I remember you, Phillipe.

Hansard sat beside her brother, leaned back on his hands, and stretched his legs out in front of him. I wondered if you would. It was a long time ago. From a distance Zuli found the man’s face unremarkable, its most prominent feature a long, high-bridged nose. Fourteen years last summer, since my family left Albinville.

Do you remember the day we met? You took me in front of you on your horse. We went to the river and you taught me to fish.

Hansard gave a short, dry chuckle. Do you also remember falling into the pool below the ford and arriving home soaking wet? Your uncle didn’t know whether to praise me for saving your life or beat me for endangering it in the first place!

You were my first friend. You spoke plainly to me, told me the truth the way no one else did. The way few have since. You were the only adult in my life who didn’t treat me like a child.

"Not an adult. Older than you, but still a boy. Believe me, I valued your friendship as