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  Rise of the Seer

  Song of the Worlds Book 1

  Brandon Barr

  Foreword

  As this is being written, Brandon Barr, author of Rise of the Seer and creator of the Song of the Worlds series, is enduring the final stages of terminal cancer.

  In 2014 Brandon began working on the first books of his science fantasy series. He created worlds that range from pre-industrial farmland to highly advanced cultures navigating space, yet he peopled those worlds with characters who are richly human. They have wrenching struggles and deep flaws. They are torn between doubt and clinging to a faith that there are reasons for everything they experience.

  When Brandon began writing he could not have known that he would be diagnosed with Leukemia and go through two bone marrow transplants. He would spend three years battling cancer, suffering through the effects of the disease and the medications, and fearing that he would not be able to raise his three sons.

  Through all this, his connection with the story deepened. When we read Winter’s doubts about the Makers, Aven’s fears for his loved ones, Meluscia’s search for answers and peace, we read the words of a man who has lived through all those things.

  Brandon Barr has not shied away from the difficult questions that suffering brings. For the people lucky enough to have met him, they knew that in real life he chose to quietly hold to the faith that there is a goodness vaster than what he could see.

  When we have the chance to listen to stories about suffering from someone who has lived through it, we should listen. There are no easy answers, but the outpouring of support and love from everyone he touched is a testament to Brandon’s kindness and strength through it all.

  We love you, Brandon. Thank you for sharing your words and your wisdom and your heart with us through your stories.

  Be at peace, dear friend. We will miss you.

  With all our love,

  Your fellow Epic Fantasy Fanatics Authors

  October 2018

  Please consider supporting Brandon’s family. #BrandonsBuddies.

  Click here for more information.

  Dedication

  To my amazingly loving wife, Amanda, for all her support! She is not only a wonderful wife, she is an amazing mother, and has been my hugest source of strength and my dearest friend. I love you.

  -Brandon Barr

  Contents

  LOAM

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  HEARTH

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  LOAM

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  HEARTH

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  LOAM

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  HEARTH

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Thank you

  Book 2

  Acknowledgments

  LOAM

  Tears purge a man of sorrows; so, too, does death.

  -Erdu Proverb

  I will describe the people of Loam as such. All have light to dark brown skin. Those in Anantium, which is by the sea, tend to have lighter brown skin, while those out in the country, (mostly farmers) have a more earthy, leafy complexion, a mix of browns, mostly darker, with a hint of orange or gray.

  -First Contact Report of Haramae, Guardian Missionary to Loam

  Chapter One

  BARON RHAUDIUS

  Dirt clung to the side of the dead girl’s petite face. Baron Rhaudius thought she looked sixteen or seventeen, but he wasn’t sure. He’d been told her name, but he’d forgotten it. It wasn’t important. What was important was the example she set for others.

  He turned to her younger sister, standing near him on the raised pavilion, hands tied behind her small frame. Probably about twelve, she was shaking with fear and weeping loudly. The headless bodies of two farmers—her parents—lay beside her. Her name he remembered, for some reason. It was Violet. Good. He could use that.

  He looked out at the watching farmers. Every farmer from the Baron’s lands was here, filling the entire field before the pavilion. Their expressions were grim as they waited to see if the younger sister would suffer the same fate that had befallen the older.

  He let them wait, wanting to let the horror of her death soak in. He wanted her death to put fear into the farmers’ hearts—that was what he was after. Her youth and beauty, and the image of her head as it rolled from the wood block, would leave a long-lasting warning in the minds of every man and woman who’d watched her last breath.

  Baron Rhaudius stooped and picked up the girl’s head by her long black hair. He was always surprised by the weight of a severed head. He smelled fear as he surveyed the crowd before him. Fear, and a palpable anger.

  “This tragedy did not have to happen,” said the Baron, holding the head up so all could see. “For that is what this is: a tragedy. No one should die so young. I know you are angry right now, but I tell you that your anger is misplaced. It should be directed at them” —he pointed at the bodies of the parents— “at the heedless parents who tried to escape with their children into the woods. They knew the penalty for breaking the contract. They knew the penalty is not mitigated by youth. Yet they chose to flee anyway, and this tragedy you see before you is the result. Do not try to leave this valley! I plead with you. Do not make me take such young and beautiful lives from you. Loam is a world of law and order, and I will hold you to that law.”

  He dropped the head back onto the platform and shouted, “Let us finish this and be done with it.”

  Rhaudius waved to a soldier, and the man dragged Violet over to the wooden block where the executioner stood. His soldiers had been fortunate to have caught the family before the Erdu took them too deep into the woods. The forest dwellers who had aided the family had fought his men fiercely. Four of his soldiers were felled before the family was captured. They’d gotten further than any family had since the Baron took control of these lands. If they’d had only a few more hours’ head start, they probably would have gotten away.

  He intended to make sure no one else tried to escape. He intended to set an example they would never forget.

  The girl began to whimper as she was pushed forward. The soldier forced her to her knees and pressed her head down onto the block, putting his knee on her back and gripping her hair, pulling her face up for the crowd.

  The silence was thick. Rhaudius could almost feel the fear in the air as every eye fixed on the girl. He took in a deep breath, the energy of the moment filling his lungs. He felt a sense of anticipation and had an urge to smile, but he stayed in character.

  Slowly, the executioner’s axe lifted into the air, up and back, over the man’s broad shoulders, his muscles like a squeezed spring.

  “Hold!” yelled Rhaudius at the last moment, moving over to the girl.

  The executioner stared at him, arms still raised, just as they had rehearsed.

  “I can’t do this,” the Baron said. “Help her up.”

  A sound unlike any other rose from the farmers. It was the hum of sudden hope. There was weeping, pleading—even praises.

  It was everything he’d hoped for and more.

  Rhaudius walked up to the executioner and feigned a whisper in his ear. The girl was standing beside him, gasping in great quantities of air. Gently, the Baron
placed a hand on her shoulder as he surveyed the gathering.

  “I find myself given to mercy today,” said the Baron. “Violet here is so young, so beautiful. I cannot bear to bury two headless girls this day. I will not steal Violet’s loveliness. You may have her back whole.”

  The Baron turned to the executioner.

  “Break her neck.”

  Chapter Two

  AVEN - Two months later

  Aven glared at his twin sister, sitting beside him at the table, opposite their parents. How could she act so calm, like everything was okay? Winter sat hunched over a bowl of dark amber broth, eating contentedly, as if everything was all right in the world.

  As if she hadn’t recently had the darkest vision she’d ever had. As if certain that nothing bad could come of it.

  Aven felt anything but certain.

  Usually, her visions were insignificant, random—birds making a nest above a neighbor's hovel, the promise of coming rain, Father grabbing Mother’s backside behind the sape vines. Sometimes they came true, and sometimes they didn’t. Aven had never thought much about them. But lately Winter’s visions had turned dark. A few days ago, she’d shared with him a vision she’d had of swarms of yellow ants coming through the baseboards on a white plaster wall. The ants were drawn by the blood that pooled on the stone floor. What was strange about the vision was that the homes the farmers in the valley lived in were underground with only rock and dirt for walls and floor.

  That one was dark enough, but the one she’d had only this morning was much worse. In this newest vision she’d seen five bodies, all of them badly burned.

  Winter put the bowl down and hummed a short, satisfied melody. Her gaze lifted to meet Aven’s. Her lips held straight while she tried to reassure him with her eyes.

  Winter’s hand found his under the table and her fingers tapped out a message in their silent language, one they had created as children to communicate secretly with each other: You don’t need to worry.

  How can I not? he tapped back. We have to do something. We have to tell Mother and Father.

  No. By acting, you may bring it to pass.

  Aven stared at his soup. It was the dreaded phrase she used to paralyze him.

  In four days, their family would be fleeing for their lives, and she wanted him to keep her gruesome vision silent? What if her vision was a warning, but they did nothing? Their upcoming plans to escape, and the images Winter saw in her mind’s eye had to be connected. They needed to tell their parents about them. They needed to try and keep the bad things from happening.

  But he knew he wouldn’t speak up as long as she didn’t want him to. They were her secret to share, not his. Even if he did decide to go against her wishes, there was the warning to stop him.

  By acting, you may bring it to pass. She didn’t need to add that it had happened before.

  Those words were a noose around his neck.

  Aven’s father pushed away from the table, and the grinding of the chair legs pulled Aven out of his dark thoughts. Aven could see from his bowl that his father hadn’t eaten any more than Aven had. His mother’s bowl was mostly full, too. “Only a few more days,” his father said. “A few more days and we’ll be free of the Baron. There’s nothing to fear. His spies haven’t caught wind of anything. Pike still hasn’t the slightest suspicion. Like I keep saying. There’s nothing to fear.” It sounded to Aven like he was trying to convince himself more than anything. “Once we make it to the mountains and breathe that free air, we’ll all have our appetites back again.”

  “Winter never lost hers,” said Aven.

  His sister smirked. “You’re only nervous because you’re seeing Harvest tonight.”

  He bent a withering eyebrow at his sister and harshly tapped out, Mouth shut. You’ll feel the same one day.

  Until then, I get to hound you. Are you going to practice kissing your hand today?

  Thinking of Harvest added one anxiety atop another. When it came to Harvest, it was a different kind of fear that pressed upon him. The fear that she was a worthier girl than he deserved. What did he have to offer her other than his devotion? She seemed happy to be matched with him, as if his faithfulness and love were enough, but he wanted to give her more. He felt like a brook beside a powerful river. She was everything. How could he measure up to that?

  And tonight—tonight was special. It was the third day of nuptials, and he’d clumsily transgressed them the night before.

  “Twelve more days until you’re wedded,” said Mother, rising from her chair. She stood beside Father. The stress lines on her face eased somewhat as she smiled at him. “That means tonight is First Kiss.”

  Aven tried to smile back, but it felt stiff.

  “She’s perfect for you. We couldn’t have chosen anyone better,” continued his mother, and Aven knew she was about to repeat what she always said about Harvest. “She is a hard worker. Runs double shifts when her mother is sick and is just as productive in the field as the best pickers in our plot. I never hear her complain. Just like her parents. And she’s god-touched in beauty.” She came over and touched Aven’s cheek. “I know you’re worried about measuring up, but you should know that her father wanted you or no one. That’s what he told me.”

  “See?” Winter said, standing up and scooping up the bowls. “I told you there’s nothing to worry about.”

  Aven scowled at her.

  “Listen to your sister,” Father said. “We can talk of weddings more later. Right now, we need to go to the meeting.”

  Aven’s parents climbed the ladder to ground level. At the top of the ladder was the hatch that led outside. The hatch was cut out of the base of an old bulge oak, long dead. Only the massive stump remained. Thick, twisted roots covered the ceiling of their underground home, the smaller rootlets forming ornate, meandering patterns that curled and stretched down along the walls and into the hard-packed, earthen floor. The stump and the roots of the bulge oak shielded them from the rain and kept their home dry. The surrounding earth helped keep the heat of summer at bay, and during the winters the bitter cold. The underground farm hovels were not large, but they were cozy and comfortable in their own way.

  His mother looked back down through the opening. “You sure you don’t want to come with us?”

  “I’ll be up in a moment,” said Aven. “I want to take care of something first.”

  Winter took the dishes into the tiny kitchen, then slipped into her room. Aven cleared the rest of the table and then followed her, his thoughts churning. Tonight was more than First Kiss. It was also the last meeting between their parents and Harvest’s parents, to go over final details of their escape. Afterward, the two men were going to sneak out to the woods and meet with one of the Erdu. The Erdu were the key to everything. They were a nomadic people, and they knew the vast, trackless forest intimately. It was with their help that the two families hoped to elude the trackers that were sure to pursue them.

  If they were caught, the same terrible punishment that Violet and her family suffered awaited them. Aven had been there, at the execution. Everyone had been. The Baron had commanded it, wanting all of them to witness. Aven had seen the parents and the older daughter beheaded, the younger daughter killed. The images from that terrible event haunted him every day.

  It was after the executions that Aven’s parents and Harvest’s began secretly planning an escape of their own. Fear was part of life in the valley. But for Aven, the fear had been distant, manageable— until his father broke the plans to him and Winter two weeks ago. Now it was real and up close. Aven could taste it as bile in his throat, along with the shortness of breath that came upon him in the dark. He’d argued against it, of course, but his parents overrode him. His father had tried to reassure him, saying they wouldn’t make the mistakes that the last family had, but it did little to alleviate the fear.

  Winter’s room was the smallest in the hovel. Aven had to stoop beneath a root to pass inside. Winter disliked being inside. She preferred the
aboveground, whether in sunlight or the moon’s glow. When it rained, she had her places to hide away or sleep. Everyone said she was a girl of the wilds. Her long black hair was usually braided with green reeds, twigs, and an array of feathers from an aven: the large, sleek bird he was named after. Aven understood why she wore the feathers. It was the same reason he never took off the bracelets she made him. They were outward reminders that the other mattered so dearly, a symbol of their unique closeness.

  Winter was sitting on the floor. Resting upon her shoulder was the butterfly she’d named Whisper. According to her it was a seer spirit, given to her by the Makers, a visible sign of her connection to the omnipotent beings who had created the universe and humans. The butterfly was tiny, its blue wings only a little larger than Aven’s thumbnail. Aven didn’t know if the butterfly was really a gift from the Makers, but it clearly had a strange attachment to her, always staying nearby. It had lived far longer than any normal butterfly should have.

  Aven didn’t like the creature. To him it was a constant reminder of his sister’s blind faith in the Makers, a faith he—and most people—didn’t share. In his belief, the Makers were, at best, uncaring gods who did nothing to help the humanity they had created. At worst, they were actively malevolent, toying with the world for their own amusement. Either way, he didn’t trust them, and it bothered him that his sister did.