Before the soldan-shah and the new ur-sikara departed for Ishalem, Omra agreed to consult with a driftwood reader. It was Naori’s idea, and he knew it would make her happy.
Talented driftwood readers were well respected among the coastal folk, and this one came with impressive credentials and testimonials. Naori had met with the woman in her small harborside shack and been so impressed by the poignant observations and insightful advice that she begged Omra to let Aizara do a reading for him. Because he adored Naori, he agreed; his second wife asked for very little.
At the appointed hour, Imir joined him, casually taking a cushion beside his son on the raised dais. The former soldan-shah was curious, but brought a healthy dose of skepticism as well. “I had a driftwood reading done when I was a brash and confident young man, when I was sure I could change the world.” Imir’s expression grew distant. “I insisted that I would never make the same mistakes my father did…then I learned that he had said the same thing about his father.” He looked at Omra with an amused expression. “And no doubt you’ve made similar promises about following in my footsteps.”
Sidestepping the comment, Omra said, “And what did the driftwood reader foretell of your future?”
“She made cryptic pronouncements that I considered unlikely at the time, but eventually they came true, much to my astonishment. After certain things happened, I would recall her prophecies, and I was absolutely convinced she had true magic.” He blew out a long sigh. “Later, though, I realized that her words could be taken in many different ways, and because I was looking for a prophecy, I found it. I doubt she was endowed with special powers, but I do think she was a skilled manipulator.”
Omra stroked his narrow beard. “Well, Naori was quite impressed with this driftwood reader, so I am honor-bound to hear what the woman has to say.”
“I’m sure she’ll say very important things, my son…though they may come from shrewd observation rather than magic.”
Kel Rovik opened the doors to the audience chamber and presented the shaman. “Aizara from Kiesh.” The guard captain made a brief bow and ushered the woman inside.
The driftwood reader did not wait for Omra to acknowledge her. “Not Kiesh exactly, Soldan-Shah. I was born in a tiny village in the sandy lands to the east of Kiesh, but my village has no name, and your guard seemed to want one.”
Aizara’s joints creaked as she moved. Her skin was whorled with wrinkles like the grain on a piece of wood. She was dark from years of exposure to the sun, and her brown hair was streaked with gray and tied back in a tight braid so that it looked like a knotted branch. Her skirt, blouse, and shawl were a ragged, fuzzy brown as if spun from frayed bark fibers.
“The name of your village doesn’t matter to me,” Omra said equably. “You are here to give me your driftwood predictions.”
She kept her eyes averted out of respect, but when she came close enough, Aizara lifted her head. Her irises were an eerie hazel. “You have chosen a piece of driftwood, Soldan-Shah?”
“I selected one from the market stalls.” From the cushion beside him, Omra lifted a gnarled branch that had been tortured into a whirlpool of wood.
Aizara reached out with her long-fingered hands. “I must feel it, touch it.”
Next to him, Imir let out a quiet snort of amusement.
The driftwood reader explained the pattern of life and time woven into all things. “Ondun laid down His sketches of destiny in everything that lives. In trees, one can see the lines and paths clearly, depending on how the wood is cut. Driftwood is a special case—produced by a living tree with its own grains and designs, and then shaped by the forces of wind, weather, sea, and time.” She stroked the smooth surface. “A piece of driftwood crystallizes destiny, keyed to the person who finds it.” Aizara looked at him sharply. “You chose this piece yourself? You didn’t have one of your men buy it?”
“It was my choice. The vendor had a great many of them, but this particular piece seemed the most interesting.”
He caught a movement out of the corner of his eye—Naori watching from a curtained passage. She saw him looking at her and smiled.
Aizara cradled the driftwood he had given her, then closed her eyes and pressed the gnarled lump against her chest, folding her arms around it. She inhaled deeply, pressing her nose to the wood, breathing in the lingering iodine of seaweed, the dry dust of long exposure to the sun. She ran her fingertips along the thin cracks that split the surface. She touched the contorted branches and dug her nails into the wood so they left deep impressions.
Her hazel eyes flew open. “This is grave indeed, my Lord! The patterns are dire. The grain, the confluence of knots and branches…oh, this is very serious.” Her arms trembled. She looked as though she wanted to drop the driftwood, but she didn’t dare.
From the curtained alcove, Omra heard Naori draw in a sharp breath.
“Very serious? In what way?” He remembered what his father had said. “Please be specific. With the constant war against the Aidenists, it doesn’t take a talented prophet to predict that hard times lie ahead.”
“I mean the end of all things. Perhaps the destruction of the world, the loss of Uraba, and Tierra as well—everyone.”
Omra sat back, glancing at his father. “I thought you said she was going to tell me what I wanted to hear.”
“I doubt she gets much repeat business,” Imir mused.
Aizara seemed angry. “This is not a trick, Soldan-Shah! I have never been so frightened.” She held up the chunk of driftwood. “This speaks volumes for anyone who knows how to read it. The fate of the world hangs in the balance. Your actions have the gravest consequences. I promise you, great destruction will be upon us.”
Incensed now, Omra leaned forward. “Did you come here with this act to frighten me?”
“I came to prepare you. And now, it seems, to warn you.”
Imir just chuckled. “She does have an interesting manner. You should reward her for her bravery, if nothing else.”
Kel Rovik shouted for the soldan-shah as he rushed a dusty man into the audience chamber. Pulling ahead of the guard, the newcomer gasped, “Cousin, I rode as fast as I could. It’s a disaster!” Omra was shocked to recognize Burilo, the son of the Missinian soldan. “I rode across the land to get here! Arikara, my father’s city, all the homes, the merchants—everything is laid waste by an earthquake! My father’s palace collapsed.”
Imir scrambled to his feet. “Is Lithio all right?”
“She is alive, but our homes are ruined, countless thousands are injured or killed. Please help us, Soldan-Shah! This is the worst catastrophe ever to happen in Missinia.”
In front of the dais, Aizara dropped the driftwood to the tiled floor. “I am very sorry, Soldan-Shah. Please believe me—I did not wish to be right.”