The Fool

[Volans]

Across the shop the remnants of an inferno burned, falling to ashes in a fireplace long since ignited. Red-hot coals, dancing, glowing scarlet and amber, were all that remained of the once mighty flame. Though weak, aided by the lit candles it managed to cast a pale glow across the divining table, long tapering fingers outlining the cards and the thinner hand that gripped them. Eyes like moonstones burned above with their own light, a light not wreathed in flame but in intrigue instead. Three words: “As you wish.” The fortuneteller inside Volans moved, instinctively, as if some force not his own compelled him. The topmost card flipped, the faded décor of ages past exchanged for a mask of a different kind. The major arcana, of course. The face of the card was a tower, stone, perhaps of Syliran origin. Unexpectedly, it was wreathed in ashes, whilst a bolt of lightning struck down from the flaking paint of the heavens to start fires on the abacus and along the crenellations. And while it seemed face-down to Hadrian, the querent, it was staring directly at Volans. “Oh my,” the aforementioned reader sighed. Volans's eyes cut upward to appraise the mage's reaction. “This is the Tower card,” he told Hadrian in a voice as smooth and slow as molasses, “It signifies great change, and usually not of the good kind. Sudden ruin, crisis, or hard times await you, Hadrian. I do not know if this will come before or after you reach Zeltiva; but there will be a sudden change, and it will come unexpectedly to you.” “But there is also opportunity here.” “See how the card is face-up towards me? That is backwards, it should be facing you. This gives the card a whole new meaning. Essentially, it shows that, amid all the wreckage, you will land among the grass at the bottom here – or, in this case, the top - standing up. As a horse must be broken before it can reach its full potential, so too must you face the fires of destiny before you can realize yours. Out of the Tower's destruction will come revelation and epiphany, and perchance you might emerge from these trials better than before.” The dissertation ceased, and the outraged squeal of aged chair legs was immediately followed by Volans leaning back. His hand drew out a dissonant beat on the table. The recidivist was waiting. “This is one card,” he murmured, “and there are but two more to go. By all means, take your time. Think on what the Tower might mean to you.” The candlelight reflected off glass horns, ever-changing. What are you really asking, Hadrian?

[Hadrian]

He felt a pang of worry despite himself. There were fortunetellers who were full of shit, and then there were the seers of Avalis. This one seemed to be, perhaps, somewhere in between. But for whom did he worry? Nugget, guarding his ancestor's bequest? Azilis, the daughter of a professor? Stonemiller, his mentor? Most of the people he knew were likely no longer there, but everywhere in Mizahar probably had the Tower in their cards. It was a trying time after the djed storms. Part of him wished he could have gone west and southwest from Avanthal to chase the origin of the storms, likely in Wind Reach, but then the storms had blown away Eryis' block on his memory and he remembered all that was waiting for him back in Zeltiva. Of course he was paying close attention to Volans himself as he gave the reading, both for visual clues and those exuded by his aura. There was no telltale flash of divine gnosis, but he did not know that a person's own aura might not instinctively tap into the chavena while reading cards. Stranger things were known to happen. Usually around Hadrian. Finally, he nodded for Volans to proceed. It went against his nature to be demonstrative, and the part of him that assumed this was all elaborate chicanery didn't want to give the ethaefal clues into his reactions, the better to hoodwink and bamboozle him. "All right."