#amwriting #fiction #flashfiction #fantasy The Horse Lords

Barghal lay the three berries on the table beside a small brazier. They glowed in the heat of the charcoal. Within the shadow of the moving flame Gegli fancied she saw herself as is when alone beneath the winding sky.

The old man took an earthen-ware bottle, no bigger than a thimble, from his bag, pulled the stopper with his teeth and sprinkled silver dust into the flame.

"Tell me what you see child," he said, tapping the cork back into the neck with his index finger.

Nothing happened. Gegli felt only the heat sear at her cheek-bones and brow. Then suddenly the flame flashed into an intense white light. Blindly Gegli gasped, as the light worked through her mind cleansing her; like bathing.

"Tell me what you see," repeated Barghal.

Gegli steadied herself, placing her fingertips on the table as she sought the safety of the corporeal world. "Trees," she said.

"You lie."

"Milk."

"Go on."

"I can't. I see nothing. Only the spirits of this place returning."

"Very good," Barghal said, softly, "you show promise. Now let us see together, so I will know if you lie. If you do it will be so much the worse for you."

Gegli shuddered, knowing Barghal worse than any warrior, knowing he knew more than simple death.

Barghal took the first eye moist between his fingers and cast it into the burning embers. "Look child," his voice seductive with hidden knowledge, "let us see what secrets this berry holds."

Gegli furrowed her brow, willing herself to see more than the shriveling brain cord, the glazing shine of the crust, the fear of mirrored darkness.

"See girl," commanded Barghal, before changing his to tone with an invitation to, "see, don't think."

In that moment of the berry imploding, when Gegli succumbed to the light of the sun, she saw a man's sandalled feet, the hem of his purple gown, the carpet of the woods, and the vagueness of singing voices.

Without asking, Barghal took up the second eye. "She was a sacrifice," he explained, "a woman pure and shamed." Gegli nodded. "Watch again."

This berry was not so whole, longer gone, wetter and filmy. The vision it gave was brief: a Sar man, tall, blonde, full-bearded with braided hair hanging in plaits. His smile curved in sneer. Across the broken bridge of his nose was carved a ditch-like scar from an axe.

"That is Neb," said Gegli, "the man who came as emissary to m father."

"You learn fast," commented Barghal, and then noting a smug expression begin to spread on Gegli's lips he snapped, "do not be prideful girl, or I will carve the whore mark upon you cheeks."

Instantly the mask of pleasure dropped from her face.

The last eye was the freshest, taken from the woman hung from the oak tree.

When asked this time, Gegli hesitated, swallowed twice, "my uncle," she whispered.