Reflections On A Ritual

He rowed steadily with the others as the boat made its way down the Khampah. A young man, muscled and browned by much training in the sun. His jaw was set and he stared unseeing at the ripples in the water as he rowed. 

It was possible that today would be his last day alive. Torn from his family at the age of five, thrust into a world of schooling and ceremonies. Fifteen years of his life spent sharpening his abilities. Fifteen years learning to control his Eye, finding meaning in his visions.

What would he become if the Ritual of the Seers was successful? He didn't know. Nobody knew.

It was ironic, really. The Seers were unseen themselves - invisible beings bound to Shahran's roots, guiding the land through their edicts. Practically the rulers of Shahran and nobody even knew whether they were alive or spirits or something entirely else. 

He wondered if any of the other apprentices aboard would pass the ritual at the Well. Sahib would be there already with the other masters, preparing the cordial. A prayer for Shahran, a cupful of the potion, and then a dive into the depths of the Well. If the waters took his body, he would begin the next stage of his journey towards becoming a Seer. But beyond the veils of sight and perception, not even the wisest in Shahran knew what would follow. 

And what if the waters rejected him? After all, it had been more than a decade since the Well last took someone. The other apprentices would drag themselves out of the water and return whence they came. All highborn, they had families and estates and servants waiting for them. The brand of failure might stay in their hearts, and they might wonder always what could have been. But it would not touch their lives. They would live in comfort till the Song of Passing was sung for them. 

But him? He remembered a house with mud walls. He remembered his father - a short, laughing man chasing after a pig. He remembered a woman singing to him in a field of corn as he nestled against her bosom. 

He rowed.