Chapter 7
Hamal Sends for Help
Hamal sat down in the middle of Chestirad’s cramped room. He ignored all the stares—which was hard to do, given that two of the people in here were seers—as he considered his words and what he wanted to say. There were many things he could say: about the dream itself, the way the air smelled, the strange tar pits, the monster-god, the desk, all the coins. He shuddered as he thought about the coins.
Adjusting his grip on the pencil, he began to write:
Grandfather, we have found an oracle in King’s Barrow. This oracle is not like Hellan, and I need your help. How can I save this little girl from a bad god? I don’t know what to do. In two days, we will be in—
Hamal looked up. “Where are we going to be two days from now?”
Cale was standing next to the fireplace, his arms folded, his back against the wall. He was watching Hamal with a curious expression.
“Gallank Tree,” the seer answered.
“Good.” Hamal finished his letter. He didn’t bother to sign his name; his grandfather knew his handwriting. Closing the book, he climbed to his feet and offered both the book and the pencil back to Gregory, who took them. Slowly.
“What would you like me to do with your note, Hamal?” Gregory asked. “I can deliver it to the post for you. Even in a town such as Redsprin, they surely have a way to communicate with the rest of the country.”
But Hamal waved him away. “No, this is fine. Thank you for letting me borrow your things.”
Gregory hovered there, arms still extended. “Did you write a note for me?”
“A note for you? No. I wrote a note for my grandfather.”
Cale and Gregory looked at one another. Cale appeared thoughtful but didn’t say a word.
It was Masly who finally said, “Hamal, would you not like us to make certain Shel Galen receives the note you wrote him?”
“No, that’s quite all right. He received it.”
Gregory held up the closed book, with Hamal’s scrawled note inside it. Speaking more slowly than usual, he said, “I have your note here in my hand, Hamal. It has not been sent to Shel Galen. Wouldn’t you like it to be sent to him?”
Hamal looked at Gregory. Then at Cale. Then at Masly. Eventually, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say, he said, “I don’t understand.”
“Neither do we,” Masly replied in his boyish voice, a smile twitching his lips. “You wrote a letter to your grandfather, but now you do not seem interested in sending it. Why would you write a letter and not send it?”
They didn’t know, did they? How was it they didn’t know? Hamal turned to Cale and exclaimed, “Is this something you don’t know? I thought you knew.”
Cale unexpectedly grinned, something he didn’t do very often. He smiled on a regular basis, but this movement of his mouth was far too grand to be just a regular smile. There was definite laughter somewhere inside it. “You thought we knew what, exactly?”
“My grandfather is a reader. All of you know my grandfather is a reader. He reads things.”
Gregory blew out his breath. “Yes, but how can Shel Galen read a letter that has not been sent to him? That is the question.”
Hamal glanced around at all the faces turned toward him expectantly, even Rosy’s. “Well, he can do it because he’s a reader. This is how I always write him. I just write the words, and then he comes to wherever I’m going to be. Once I didn’t have paper or a pencil, and so I wrote with ashes on the side of a house. He showed up then too. And another time I scratched out the words in a riverbank, and he still came. It doesn’t matter how the words are written, and I don’t have to send any letters to him—he always reads them wherever he is.”
For a long moment, no one in the room moved.
Gregory began to sound like he was being strangled.
Cale stared at Hamal. “What are you saying? If something is written—even in ashes on the side of a house or scrawled in the mud of a riverbank—Shel Galen can read it?”
“Aye. He’s a reader. He reads things.”
“But what are you saying?” Cale repeated. “That if something is written down…? That is to say, your grandfather has read the plans of kings because a scribe recorded them? The private matters of kingdoms and territories, secrets traded between seats of power—Shel Galen the sage has read all these things, simply because they were written down?”
Hamal frowned at the seers and Gregory. “Why don’t you know this? He’s a reader. His gifting tells you exactly what he does. I don’t know why you are surprised. He reads things.”
Cale blinked. And then blinked again. “No wonder the Theranians call him the most powerful gift on the continent.”
“I need…I need to sit down,” Gregory said and collapsed onto the edge of the bed, where he cradled his head in his hands. Pushed against his skull, the book and the pencil stuck up out of his hands at odd angles that somehow made Hamal think of chicken feathers. “A reader. Shel Galen is a reader.”
He did not speak again for a very long time, except to mutter things about plans he’d written, and outlines and books, and Hamal didn’t know what all the fuss was about. Yes, Shel was a reader—but so was Gregory, and Gregory knew Shel was a reader. Was Gregory confused because Shel was also a sage, and so his gift was a little different? Was that it?
Sometimes readers could be quite mysterious—because of all the words. They remembered every word they saw with their eyes; their gift stored it up for them until they had entire books and even libraries in their heads. They carried around more words than Hamal knew or had even heard of.
He looked down at Gregory, who was cradling his head full of libraries, and thought maybe this was a word problem, because Gregory knew so many of them.
–H–
Miles away in the throne room of another country, an argument was taking place.
One contender spoke calmly, keeping his voice level and without accusation. He was confident in his position, and he had no doubts the king would do as he suggested.
The other contender was not a man who fell to argument very often, but whenever he did, it was almost impossible for him to continue speaking rationally. This was why he had never been given a seat on the council. His ideas typically were sound, but he seemed incapable of solid, reasonable communication when anyone attempted to contradict him.
Shel Galen, the first contender, sighed deeply. “Mecall, you are invisible again.”
The torrent of words cut off.
“Oh,” the other man said and reappeared. His face was flushed, the skin of his throat mottled. Sweat glistened on his forehead. “Forgive me.” He grimaced and looked through the large, heavily gilded room. “I suppose I’ve already lost, haven’t I?”
“Several minutes ago,” the king confirmed.
Mecall’s face reddened further. “Why, then, did you not spare me misery and put an end to the argument, sire?”
“Because I am so easily entertained by it,” the king replied lightly. “Every time you realize your water has begun to boil, you become deeply red-faced and apologetic. And I am simply amused.”
The red had spread to Mecall’s ears now. “Sire,” he said, drawing out the word.
Some things did not change, no matter the time involved. Shel smiled. He had been listening to the two brothers bicker for years, and he, like the king, had become rather fond of it. Both were good men, but only one knew how to keep his peace, and the other comically did not.
Taking pity on Mecall, Shel said, “There is a fact you do not know in this matter. Allow me to…”
He never finished the sentence.
He sat back in his chair and looked east, toward King’s Barrow. Beyond the palace walls hindering his sight, the sun had set several hours earlier, and a city wreathed in shadows and lantern light lay comfortably around the palace grounds.
The king was familiar with this look. At once, the teasing stopped and he came alert. “What says the prophet?”
Shel took a deep breath and seemed to come to himself. He blinked several times and focused on the king. “No, sire. It is not the prophet—fortunately. My grandson has sent for me. It seems they’ve found an oracle in King’s Barrow.”
The king’s brows rose. “Oracles appear only in times of war, when the foundation of a nation is threatened.”
“This is concerning,” said his brother, now calm and rational and slightly less red.
“Sire, if I may…”
The king waved at the door. “You are free to go. The rest of this conversation can wait.” He shot his brother a look. “As I’ve already made up my mind, you see.”
Mecall, looking pained, gave a polite nod.
Shel strode from the room, and a guard closed the door behind him. He departed the palace and, a few minutes later, stepped into the courtyard, where he made his way to the eastern corner and the large, ornate fountain that bubbled there. It was a glorious work, constructed by a glass artist of significant skill. The water mechanism looked like a young girl dancing with water spraying out of her fingers. She was constructed entirely of gold, with gemstones that glistened on her dress even now, beneath the warm blanket of a comfortable night. This fountain was one of the wonders of Theraine.
Pulling a certain type of coin from his pocket, Shel tossed it into the reservoir. Then he waited.
He did not have to wait long.
A being shot from the water. Liquid cascaded off the head and shoulders, which rapidly revealed themselves as belonging to a man. He materialized into solid form in front of Shel and, in the warm glow of the courtyard, cast a faint shadow that hadn’t been there a moment before. He appeared young, about twenty years of age as a lander would measure them, and he wore the blue uniform of the transport system.
“How may I serve you, sir?” he asked with a slight bow.
“I need to travel to Gallank Tree in King’s Barrow as quickly as possible.”
The man grew still as his gaze unfocused. It was like he was looking at a map that existed in his head. A moment later, his gaze grew sharp again. “I can get you there in two days.”
A journey that would require two weeks for a lander, reduced to a mere two days. Shel grinned and shook his head. He liked this part.
“That is what I expected,” Shel replied. “I am ready now.”
The man set his dripping hand on Shel’s shoulder and shifted their forms.
Their shadows disappeared. The area next to the fountain was suddenly empty.
–H–
Author’s note: This Hamal book is on its way to being the longest volume in the series so far. 🎉
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Comment below or find us on Facebook. Copyright notice: © 2026 by Lauren Stinton. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events or sapient plants is purely coincidental.