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The old woman nodded. “I am Ingra,” She slid the silver pieces toward herself with dark spindly fingers wrinkled with age. “I am able to see certain aspects of your future, the aspects that my Saints allow me to see.”
“Benevolent Saints only, please. I just want to know if I marry the Prince of Zidderune,” Larka giggled. “Nothing from the Blood Saints.”
Ingra did not laugh. “I will tell you what I see. I cannot look for specific scenarios nor plead favor from a specific side.”
I almost heard the smile leave Larka’s face as she nodded. “Yes, okay. Me first.”
“My Saints are telling me your future will not be what you imagine it to be,” Ingra said, turning to me, her dark eyes pinning me in place. “My Saints ask that I start with you.” I gave a nervous laugh, nodding my head.
“Okay.”
“Tell me your name, sweet one,” she purred.
“Petra. Petra Gaignory.”
“Ahh, Petra. Beautiful name,” she droned. “The Blood Saints...” she started. My face wrinkled at the mention of the dark ones. “The Blood Saints are showing me…blood.”
“Blood?” I scoffed, fighting back the laugh in my voice. How convenient that the damned Blood Saints showed her blood. Larka giggled beside me. I just about rolled my eyes when Ingra started speaking again.
“Your blood will spill, girl, from your eyes like they’re hoping.” Who is hoping my eyes will bleed? I stilled, cocking my head, my gaze narrowing. “The beasts of the Onyx Pass prowl the mountains with your blood on their jowls.” Larka went rigid then.
“I’m from Inkwell. Why would I ever leave the Eserenian walls?” I asked incredulously. We had only ever heard legends of the Onyx Pass; warriors cutting down monsters as they rode to their next assignment, beggars and vagrants trying to find their way somewhere else, few making it through the horrors of the pass. And the unlucky Royal Initiates who did not pass whatever tests they were put through, cast out to die in the forest between the jaws of monsters.
“My Saints will not say why you will leave,” she rasped. “My Saints are showing me fearsome beasts laying slain in your wake. Wolfhounds opened from shoulder to gut. Oxbears sliced across the neck. Veridian raptors without wings, left with bleeding stumps, and Rivodian crows combusting in midair. Bones cracking, fracturing in places that won’t heal.” Her words quickened. Cold sweat began trickling from my temple. The incense smoke was suddenly choking me, the walls closing in. I needed to get out, I needed–
“You were born of sin, were you not?
“Our parents were married when Petra was conceived,” Larka said matter-of-factly. “If you’re looking for a child born of sin, that’s me.”
“Mmm…” Ingra hummed, digesting her words. “Cabillia. The country to our north. My Benevolent Saints are showing me Cabillia. Fields of violet wildflowers, and…oh.” She stopped.
“What?” I breathed. The incense suddenly smelled like burnt lavender. Sharp. Sour. An affront to the fragile scent of a lavender field.
“Firestorm. My Blood Saints are showing me a firestorm. Many firestorms, actually.” I was silent. “And my Saints have closed the curtains.”
“What? Cabillia? I don’t understand. Why is there a firestorm?” I pleaded.
“My Saints will not say. My Saints have shown me all they can show me. You must be patient.”
Larka turned to me, a twinkle of mischief in her eyes. The humanity of the look softened my posture, my muscles relaxing. I could tell she stifled a laugh. She didn’t believe a word the soothsayer spoke. It further slowed my heartbeat. I reminded myself that arealsoothsayer would not be at the carnival. Arealsoothsayer would be serving a king or a lord of some far off land, advising them on military strategies and the movements of their enemies.
Ingra gave me a grim nod before turning her attention to Larka. I felt the sweat begin to evaporate from my palms.
She is not a real soothsayer.
I am okay. I am okay. I am okay.
Larka leaned expectantly toward the soothsayer across from her. Ingra took a deep breath, holding it for a few seconds before releasing it in a heavy sigh. “And your name, pretty girl?”
“Larka Gaignory.” Larka smiled.
“Larka. Hmm. ‘Means birdsong.” Larka nodded.
Ingra leaned back slightly, her black eyes searching the ceiling of her tent. She was silent for a few beats, her steady breathing the only sound, her breath creating whirls of smoke above us.
“Darkness. My Saints are showing me darkness,” the soothsayer said quietly, somberly.
My heart rate increased again. “Darkness?” Larka scoffed. Sweat began to dampen my palms once again. “Your Blood Saints or your Benevolent Saints?”
