Gwyndolyn: A Whisper of Flame
"I only read the future. I do not write it."
The bells tolled softly beneath the misted sky of early spring, echoing like breath across the inner courtyard of Château Dargentel. Thin rays of cool sunlight spilled through latticed windows, tracing lines of gold onto the stone floor of the prophetess' chambers.
Gwyndolyn de Malleroche knelt precisely on the embroidered mat at the chamber's centre, her back straight as an arrow, hands folded neatly, posture unmoving as though still frozen from the long months of winter. Not in prayer; her lessons had taught her not to pray for visions. One did not summon fate. Prophecy could not be coerced. One waited for it, eyes open, breath calm, mind receptive.
She exhaled, counting six heartbeats. The number of clarity. Then inhaled, and counted again. Nine. This number, she did not quite remember the meaning of, but it was one that always filled her with comfort, with silence. She did not know why the number always came to her. It simply did, and with it, in time, came truth.
Around her, the room was silent and tranquil. A calmness born not from absence nor asceticism, like the monastic orders of the Empire would preach, but through order and neat precision. Bookcases lined the walls, not crammed but carefully curated and organised. There were numerous volumes on symbolism, dream-reading, cycle-mapping, and the Interpretations of the Nine Moons, each in its optimal place, and Gwyndolyn was certain she could have pointed them all out with her eyes shut. They were trophies won not in battle, but through long years of study. Even now, years after she had left the convent that set her upon this path, her old teacher's words echoed crystal clear in her mind:
"To see is not enough. A child can dream. A prophetess deciphers."
Haste was the greatest enemy of a prophetess. This, she knew well. Once, in her eagerness to please her recent patron, the Baron de Dargentel, she had misread the signs shown to her. She had spoken a sentence too soon, hadn't taken the time to properly decipher the omens. The Baron's hunting party had journeyed most of the day, but at the end they had turned back in vain, their quarry nowhere to be found. She had, however, not been reprimanded for the failure of her prophecy. But Gwyndolyn had nevertheless reprimanded herself for it every day since.
A flicker touched her inner vision, a brief flash of mental images that were not her own. She stilled all thoughts, offering fate her patience and her silence. Her mind a mirror-sheen lake, awaiting the first droplet from above. Two came to her, one after the other, spreading tiny ripples as they struck her consciousness, each only lasting a heartbeat: A silver bird turning mid-flight. A hand reaching into fire and withdrawing a key from a pile of ash.
She did not flinch. Truth, once bared, was not to be feared. Her connection with the visions was a delicate thing, like spider's silk stretched across infinity.
Instead, she reached for the ink and parchment laid at her side, within easy reach for just this moment. She wrote in clean, delicate strokes:
Ash unlocked. Flight interrupted.
She would analyse it later, once the sun began to settle in the west. There was a rhythm to prophecy. A shape beneath the metaphor, born from years of experience. She just hadn't learned it all yet.
But her hand paused as she reached for the sand to blot the ink.
The candle to her left guttered. She felt it before she saw it.
Not extinguished. Just… shuddering.
She glanced at it then, her breath catching. It was not in fear, she would always tell herself, but merely in that half-second of recognition she could never explain. A heightened perception of its presence, that once grasped was hard to relinquish. The wax around its base had begun to melt faster than it should, dripping crimson down the length of it in a frantic rhythm.
She forced her hand to remain steady as she turned away, trying to chase it from her thoughts, and failing.
She abhorred fire.
She had never said so aloud, would never admit it to anyone but herself. It was irrational. A prophetess could not afford superstition, or petty fears. But the truth lingered. Ever since she was small, barely old enough to walk, it had been part of her. Ever since her very first vision came to her in the form of a burning orchard she had never seen, she had feared and hated what flame meant. She had loathed and detested not the heat of it, but what the tongues of fire could do.
It was not warmth it represented. Not light. It was change.
And change, she knew, was never an honest merchant. It always took more than it gave back.
The chamber doors creaked open behind her on well-oiled hinges, the sound so slight it was barely audible. She knew who it was before the steps fell. A herald, one of her Lord's squires. He had run, she knew, and now he was trying to calm his breathing. As he stepped slowly, reverently, into her chambers, she recognised him from the weight of his steps and the tonality of his breath, much as he tried to hide it in order not to disturb her. At length, seeing as she did not greet him, he cleared his throat gently, almost apologetically.
"Lady de Malleroche," he said, respectfully. "Your Lord requests your wisdom. The traders that were scheduled to arrive from Parravon are three days later than expected. The Baron is... uneasy."
She rose smoothly from where she knelt, dusted her navy-blue robes with crisp, practiced movements. "Three days," she murmured, softly, to herself.
Her mind turned briefly, opening herself to the images once more. A raven with frost on its wings. A map with an empty road. A missing sun. Sometimes, signs were confusing, and did not immediately make sense. This time, however, they joined to form the parts of a puzzle, revealing the image she needed as they flowed together.
"Tell the Baron," she said, "that delay does not always stem from evil deeds and treacherous hearts. The roads thaw slowly this season."
The boy blinked. "But… you know this?"
"I see what I must." She gave him a gentle, practiced smile. He flushed slightly as their eyes met and threw his gaze to the floor at once. "And I speak what I can."
He left, looking both reassured and a little afraid. She did not blame him.
As the doors shut, Gwyndolyn turned back to the candle.
It had stilled. Just like all the others, now.
She stared at the flame. She forced herself not to look away, as the dancing flame seemed to swallow her entire point of view.
In its trembling glow, she saw—for just a moment—a tower wrapped in fire, and a woman inside it. Unharmed, or perhaps already ash? Gwyndolyn didn't know what unsettled her more.
She looked away, releasing the breath she hadn't known she was holding.
The vision passed.
She would not write it down.
Not yet.