Dowyr laid on the top of a bunkbed staring at the dark ceiling of his prison cell. A prisoner for true, this time. No visiting days, no Emogic lessons, no religious lectures or sermons to endure, just a space to exist in and do nothing. He might’ve laughed at how familiar it felt to the orphanage or the Academy even still, but he thought he wouldn’t be in the mood to laugh ever again.

  Elethe and Sirona were gone. Garec was dead. He hadn’t seen nor heard about any of the others. Weynon shared his cell, but that didn’t seem like much to be happy about. The kid spent most of his time sleeping, or maybe pretending to sleep, and even while he was awake, he wouldn’t speak. He barely even moved. Dowyr would sign something to him, and it was like his eyes glazed over. At one point he even slapped Weynon trying to get his attention, and he simply chuckled as though it were a great joke.

  It made Dowyr want to scream, though he wasn’t sure if out of frustration or fear.

  The only source of light in the cell came from a single lightstone attached to the middle of the ceiling and whatever illuminated the hall outside the iron bars, which wasn’t to say much. He’d need to run in circles for a short while for there to be enough light to make out every detail of the room. At least it had plumbing.

  While staring at the ceiling, he wondered what was happening in the rest of the world. It had only been a few days since Royce’s death, but that news had to have traveled swiftly. Would the war end? They’d have to be mad to go on without him. That was the only solace Dowyr had. So many lives saved, ones that would never know him. He was happy for them, and they were better off not knowing him anyway, so he told himself.

  The echo of footsteps getting nearer caught his ear, and he turned to the iron bars. A lone man in plain clothes stopped in front of his cell and opened the door. Dowyr didn’t recognize him. Weynon stirred from his bunk below.

  “Happy Festival of Atonement, children,” the man said with an overeager voice. “How appropriate it is to take the darkest day to think back on past mistakes and how one might atone for them.”

  Oh no, a preacher, Dowyr thought, and signed something particularly vulgar at him.

  The man continued without any indication he noticed. “Which is why, after much reflection, I have decided to give you the option of freedom.” He stepped aside from the door and motioned to it.

  Dowyr blinked and looked at the open door. Freedom? There had to be a catch. Regardless, he didn’t care, and laid his head back down.

  “Goodness me, do you not want to be free?” the man asked.

  “I like it in here,” Weynon said, the first words he’d spoken since killing Royce.

  “Do you now? And your friend, too?”

  Dowyr gave an apathetic thumbs-up.

  “Hmm. Unexpected, and yet, understandable. Might I share the room with you a little while?” The man sat down cross-legged, back against the iron bars. “I’ve grown tired of my conversational partners as of late, and talking to children has always been somehow refreshing.”

  Dowyr gave him a questioning look, realizing his accent wasn’t from Kircany. Who was this strange man?

  Weynon made no further comments. Dowyr looked down at him and saw he simply laid in his bed, staring upwards. He didn’t even look Dowyr’s way. It sent a shiver up his spine.

  “What an odd lack of reaction,” the man said. “I truly can’t tell whether you are bothered with my presence or not. You, on top, you cannot speak?”

  Dowyr looked at him and shook his head. Only sign, he signed.

  “I see. Speaking of which, you may know me as the Seer. I see too much. Many things, webs and weaves and patterns and possibilities I see before me, and so strangely in here I see nothing but what is only now and has been. It is a curse. Not to see so little in here, but to see too much out there. I would give it back if I could, but I must make use of it.”

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  Dowyr frowned at him. A Seer, or a Regret Emogician. Now things were beginning to make sense, some of which being the nonsense he was saying. But if Royce had a Seer on his side, how had they managed to kill him at all?

  “I see questions in your eyes. Lay them before me, and I will answer.”

  Why? Dowyr signed.

  “You will need to be more specific, unless you wish for me to talk until the end of time. Don’t tempt me, I will do it.”

  Why did you let us kill Royce?

  “Ahhhhh, that is a terrible question,” the Seer said, nodding thoughtfully. “It implies I was in control—true, yes—and that I was helping Royce to begin with and then changed my mind—also true. Why did I let you? I simply did not want to do it myself.”

  Dowyr scowled at him. Did not want to do it himself? And so he allowed Garec to be killed and for them to be captured and imprisoned. It made his offer for freedom even more shallow.

  “Yes, I am to blame for everything,” he said. “Except the war, of course. That was certainly all the Tyrdens’ doing. I am merely along for the ride.”

  Liar, Dowyr signed. You’re up to something more.

  The Seer shrugged. “Every man is up to something more. It doesn’t take a keen eye to see that, unless the average person is much more stupid than I feel comfortable believing. And that would be saying something. I’ve heard about you, you know. That you remember everything you’ve read. It should be obvious to a boy like you just how stupid the average person is. The pain of that burden is unbearable, isn’t it? You feel like you’re trapped. Nobody understands you. It’s easier to be distant. You convince yourself that, somehow, if only somebody came and set you free, others could see just how great you are. But that is the clever self-deception of the intelligent. Your own wits betray you, convincing you thoroughly of foolishness, and no one could tell you otherwise, for they are so utterly beneath you. You tell yourself that they cannot comprehend the machinations you’ve so carefully concocted in your mind. Your brilliance becomes your truth. But even the stupid can smell narcissism. That is always the trouble. More questions?”

  Who told you about me?

  “If we wish to be technical about it, you did, but you also did not because it never happened.”

  It dawned on Dowyr that this man had foreseen their interaction, perhaps in dozens of different ways. Hundreds. He could learn things from people without ever talking to them.

  “A curse, certainly. It means none of my conversations are ever truly real unless I intend them so. But real conversations are dangerous. They can wander around without a point and touch things that shouldn’t be touched. Or simply be terribly dull, and make no mistake, that is one of the worst dangers of all. To be dull, boring, predictable. I want to die just thinking about it. You’re not in the mood for a story but I’m going to tell you one anyway. Don’t worry, it is short. There once lived a man who ate, drank, worked, slept, and then died. The end. Now you can say you have heard the tale of ten million men. Incredible that you didn’t even have to meet them. Here is a question for you, one I have not asked and so I do not know the answer. You must leave some surprises for yourself, you know. What is it that you are afraid of sitting here in this cell?”

  It was difficult to keep up with the man and how much he said, but Dowyr pondered on the question. Death first came to mind, but he was quick to dismiss it. Death would have been preferable. It had been what he hoped for once the Tyrdens had been dealt with in the first place. And now, after being put in prison, there was nothing that had threatened to kill him, the guards had brought him food, and he had access to water. But to live with only that for the rest of his life? He was afraid of that. There was nothing honorable about such a life. Nothing useful.

  The open cell door invited him out.

  He refused its call.

  I am afraid of what’s out there, Dowyr signed.

  “That’s not good. But it is understandable. The world is so big, and we are so small and fragile. Even a man such as Royce fell to a child with the smallest of blades. A fitting end, as his ideas were too big for his head. But overall a rather disappointing answer, I was hoping for something more dramatic from you. Maybe your friend has a better answer? Though I find it rather difficult to get him to speak, so I won’t press my luck.”

  Weynon still laid in his bed staring upwards, but at the Seer’s remark he turned his head. “I’m not afraid of anything.”

  The Seer’s eyes narrowed. “Now that… is what I call a bullshit answer.”

  “So what? You talk too much. It’s annoying. Leave me alone.”

  The Seer gave a short whistle and stood up. “As you command, milord. Still, this was most fascinating. Two boys, one afraid of everything, the other afraid of nothing. This tickles me in such a way I might call fate, but I know better than to believe in such a thing. You could even say I know it doesn’t exist. But I suppose I do need to be going now, there is much to do. And next time, despite the fact there won’t be one, don’t be so hasty to chase off a clever man. It’s always worthwhile speaking to a clever man. Don’t forget to think upon your sins and the ways you can atone for them, it is the appropriate holiday for such things. Fare thee well.”

  The Seer left, leaving the cell door open behind him, though it was only a moment before one of the guards strolled by and closed it. Dowyr sighed and moved to lay back down, but a voice caught his ear.

  “Weynon? Dowyr? Is that you over there?”