“Understanding is enough for now,” the Gibbor said at length. “At least I’m not a monster in your eyes.”
Prompted by a sudden thought, the King asked, “Can you really change into a bird?”
“Falcon,” corrected the Seer. “The answer is yes. It’s one of the gifts of the Blue Stone.”
Ranald eyed him speculatively, but the Gibbor shook his head. “Never mind how. There are complexities involved, many of which I don’t understand. Now, I have a gift for you.”
“A gift?” The Warrior King stared at the Gibbor’s empty hands.
“Nothing tangible, but a prophecy. You will have a son.”
All tentative camaraderie fled. Ranald flushed with anger. The subject of a son had struck home.
“When the gypsies bring their potions and predictions, we chase them out with dogs and stones. Have I debased myself with a charlatan then?”
The Gibbor wasn’t put off. “I have certain gifts which don’t include concocting useless potions or lying to lovesick girls. You’ll have a son. I’m telling you the truth.”
The King gave an odd bark of laughter. “May it be as you predict, but I’m an old man at thirty- seven. I ache and chill; sleep is often denied me. My physicians tell me it is none of the plague, chiefly because I’m still living, but I wonder. The Earth Skyll, Elymas, claims to have found another tonic. The potion will be ready upon my return.”
“Elymas,” The Gibbor’s words were sparing. “He has been the Earth Skyll some three hundred years.”
Ranald nodded. “About that. I can’t be certain.”
“Regardless of his cure, you will certainly have a son. In a twelvemonth.” He stretched out his arm and without warning, the falcon landed. “Your father’s soul has easement, but not until I gather my brethren for the final absolution will he know peace. I’ll send a feather from my falcon.” Lightly he touched one of the white circles on the bird’s wing. “A feather dyed blue, its color changed from beyond. When you receive it, know that King Rand has been granted a path in the Deep.”
