The Light of the Oracle (13 page)

“ Yes?”

“First: regarding the renegade prophet. Clea was the only one to provide a useful vision of Selid. Every other prophet could see only mists.”

He nodded. “ Yes. Clearly, Selid has created an etheric cloak. Our decision to cast her out was quite correct; she has proven herself contemptuous of the Temple's most sacred laws. Fear not—she may have temporarily concealed herself from other prophets, but she is only tempting the Lord of Death.” He sighed. “Her understanding of Keldes was always weak.”

“She lived through the desert,” Ilona said softly.

“She must have powerful protection.”

“Monzapel is no match for Keldes,” he answered.

“The Moon Goddess is often underestimated. Monzapel is both darkness and light, which endows her with great power.”

Renchald gave a slight shake of his head. “Keldes will claim Selid.”

“I'm sure you're right, Your Honor.” Ilona put her hands together. “May we speak of the other matter I bring before you?”

His face was solemn. “Certainly.”

“It concerns Bryn Stonecutter and Clea Errington.”

He brought his index fingers together. “Ah.”

“All through the autumn, the wind-chosen girl was more adept at prophecy than Clea Errington.”

“And now?”

“During the week before classes closed for the winter holiday, Bryn fell from first in the class to last.”

“ You know how unreliable the wind-chosen are.” His voice was cold.

“I believe Bryn may have been unlawfully cursed.”

A short pause. Renchald rose from his chair. He looked out of the window at the blank, wintry night. The stillness gathered. He turned around again. “I have had a message from Sliviia. Lord Morlen is alive and powerful, becoming a thorn in the emperor's side.” He advanced to stand in front of Ilona. “Bryn may have done well in prophecy for a time, but her predictions about larger matters cannot be relied upon. Moreover, we cannot afford to offend Lord Errington.

As you know, he has arrived for the festival. We met today and I gave him a favorable report of Clea.”

Ilona returned his gaze. “Curses must be sanctioned by both you and me. If a curse has been cast unlawfully, we must see to it that justice prevails.”

He was quiet for a moment. “After the festival, when her father has returned to the east, I will meet with Clea to impress upon her that she may not issue a curse unless it is sanctioned by the Temple. I shall discern whether or not a curse has been cast.”

Ilona's bow before leaving displayed all her mastery of protocol: First Priestess taking leave of the Master Priest after receiving a promise from him.

At the Master Priest's command, Bolivar took with him only two other guards to Bewel to find Selid: Finian, a young warrior recently recruited to the Temple, and Garth, who had served for two decades. They didn't wear the Temple insignia, for the Master Priest had charged them to be discreet.

“Don't ask for Selid by name,” he ordered. “She is doubtless using an alias. Inquire about a young female scribe.”

Though cold, the morning was clear, and boded well for their journey.

“Eat something,” Dawn urged Bryn. “ You're skin and bones.”

Bryn looked at the table. Eggs, potatoes, and bread. She wanted none of it. To please Dawn, she sipped tea. Its slightly bitter flavor suited her.

“The festival's tonight,” Dawn said, clasping her hands excitedly. “Winter solstice! Solz's Day.” Snow fell past the windowpanes behind her. She nudged Bryn. “ Your birthday.”

I'll be sixteen
, Bryn thought dully.

“Won't it be thrilling to see the grand hall lit by more than five thousand candles?” Dawn went on.

“It's a chance to see gentry from all over Sorana,” Alyce put in. “The guest wing is full. We'll see lords together with commoners in the Grand Hall.”

What does it matter?
Bryn thought. No stonecutters from Uste would be there to mingle with the likes of Lord Errington. Simon didn't have the means to make his way to the Temple. She thought longingly of her father and wished it were possible to exchange letters with him. But Simon could neither read nor write, and with Dai dead, the quarry village had lost its scribe. She had to be content with putting her father in her nightly prayers.

“I don't care about the lords,” Dawn replied. “I only want to hear the Gilgamell Troupe.”

The Gilgamell Troupe's fame had spread throughout Sorana. Four troubadours, they played both lyre and lute and beat upon tall drums, entertaining royalty in many lands. Dawn behaved as if she were in love with their master singer. “No one could hear Avrohom and not feel as if her heartstrings were being played upon,” she had said many times.

A few weeks ago, Bryn had imagined herself among the crowd of handmaids and acolytes, enjoying the music, perhaps dancing with Kiran. But now, she
didn't care to go. Clea would be there, leading the Feathers and charming the Wings, basking in the admiration of lords and commoners alike. Bryn didn't think she could bear it.

“The Master Priest spares no expense at the solstice,” Alyce chirped, “or you wouldn't have the chance to see the troupe, Dawn.”

“Well, this
is
the Temple of the Oracle,” Dawn answered cheerily. “Winter solstice. Great meaning for the gods. Without the solstice, Solz would disappear from the earth. Tomorrow his light begins to grow again. And where would Ellerth be without Solz?” She turned to Bryn. “ You'll have the time of your life.”

Bryn shook her head, sorry to disappoint Dawn. “I waited too long to look for a gown in the castoffs closet. Besides, I don't feel well.” She lifted her tea again, hiding behind the mug.

Her friends all began to remonstrate, but Bryn wouldn't hear of changing her mind.

Kiran padded down the hallway from the acolytes' washroom, shaking his dripping head. Brock hurried to catch up with him. “Going to the festival, Mox?” he called, using his nickname for Kiran, a shortened version of Lummox.

“I'll be there, Owl-face. For the music.”

“The music?” Brock toweled his curly black hair as he walked. “I'll be there for the maids.”

Kiran thought of Bryn, hoping to dance with her. She'd be light on her feet like a breeze in a field. He hoped the festival would lift her spirits. She'd been
tired and gloomy lately. When he asked what was wrong, she wouldn't say. Sometimes, she didn't even join him for chores.

“What'll you wear?” Brock asked.

Kiran held up the bundle he carried. “Clothes.”

Brock lifted an eyebrow. “That sheepshearer's outfit you serve barn duty in?”

“Sheepshearer?”

Brock stopped short. “It's the Solstice Festival. Everyone will be in their best finery.”

“I have no finery.” Kiran punched his bundle with one hand. “I've been to the festival four times, always dressed in clothes like these.”

Brock measured him with shrewd black eyes. “What a hopeless lummox.” He looked down at his own wiry frame. “If I'd taken after my father, I'd look like you, more bear than man. As it is, I've nothing that would fit you.” He grabbed Kiran's arm, tugging him into the acolytes' hall. “Wait here.”

A moment later, Brock returned with Jorgen, a senior acolyte. “He says he can get you clothes.”

Kiran shrugged but went along, allowing Jorgen to supply him with a cream shirt, red vest, and black trousers. Then Jorgen and Brock urged him to get his hair cut.

“ You look like a beast,” Brock told him pleasantly. “Tonight is for humans.”

Two hours later, having been pronounced human by Brock, Kiran walked through the doorway of the Temple's Grand Hall.

Tall tapers, hundreds of them, in crystal sconces and candelabra, shed light throughout. The high ceiling was hung with chandeliers holding fifty candles apiece. The crystal candleholders created an illusion that multiplied the flames, making the room sparkle like a giant fiery gem. Fireplaces blazed. Tables spread with white cloths stood end to end along one entire wall, laden with platters of food and jugs of wine.

During previous festivals, Kiran had found a place near the troubadours and thought of little else besides the music. He'd eaten and drunk, and sometimes danced. He'd paid no attention to what people were wearing. Now he noticed that everyone glittered in fine dress.

Kiran went farther into the hall, moving toward the platform where the troubadours would stand. It was easier to get across the crowded room than he'd expected, but the troupe hadn't arrived yet, so he and Brock edged toward the tables of food.

“Quite an entrance.” Brock's brown hand reached for a napkin.

“Entrance?” Kiran asked, puzzled. He reached for a handful of walnuts, sparing a thought for the cook's helper who had shelled them into perfect halves.

Brock looked at him incredulously. “ You didn't notice?”

“Notice what?” Kiran glanced over his shoulder.

“All those maids moving aside for you and whispering?”

Kiran frowned.

Brock spoke low. “The Wings aren't going to like hearing the Feathers coo over you, Mox.”

Feathers cooing over him? Brock wasn't showing the half-smile that normally gave him away when he was joking. “Never mind the Wings,” Kiran said. “They're all beak and no talons.”

“Is that so?” Brock picked out a cheese pastry, careful not to get crumbs on his linen cuffs. He turned to gaze across the hall. “D'you see Willow? I want to be near her when the troupe begins to play.”

“Willow?”

“Keep that growl of yours down. Yes.”

Kiran grabbed a pastry. The two young men headed for a corner that didn't look too crowded and wasn't far from the stage. Kiran saw Dawn, dressed in a lavender gown too short for her long legs. Spotting Willow close to her, he caught her eye and waved her toward him, disappointed not to see Bryn among the group of friends. Alyce wore pale yellow; Jacinta's thick hair was twined with lace flowers; Willow floated in something soft and gauzy. But no Bryn.

“Oh, the Gilgamell Troupe is coming in!” Dawn cried.

Kiran hurriedly finished his food. He watched as the four troubadours made their way to the stage. Last year he had noticed only their instruments. Now he took in their appearance, starting with the smallest man, the red-haired fellow with an elfish face, known to the world as Avrohom, the troupe's strongest singer. He could fill the largest halls in every land he traveled with his famous voice. He wore a gold satin shirt and
embroidered trousers. The troubadour who carried a lyre—a small, delicately made harp that he treated like a beloved child—was a slender man whose luxuriant black mustache contrasted with his bald head. He had a costume similar to the singer's, but his colors were black and green. The lute-player, round-faced and paunchy, wore orange and yellow, while the drummer stood out because he didn't wear a shirt; his purple vest showed muscular brown arms.

The four of them bowed to the room, and a hush came over the hall.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” The red-haired troubadour's voice carried over the uplifted faces.

“Avrohom,” Dawn whispered, looking smitten.

“We are honored to be here in the Temple of the Oracle once again to celebrate the triumph of Solz— the winter solstice!”

Applause.

The lutist strummed a note, the harpist picked out a chord, the drummer set a swift tempo, and Avrohom lifted his voice.

People were shifting to clear a circle in the middle of the hall so dancing could begin.

Brock bowed to Willow with a rakish smile: foolish acolyte asking lovely handmaid to dance.

Willow bowed back: humble handmaid foolishly agreeing to dance. They headed toward the dance floor.

Kiran tapped his feet, wishing for Bryn. He watched Calden, a skylark-chosen youth with a thick blond mustache, bow to Jacinta, asking her to dance. Alyce too was borne away, by Marvin.

Kiran turned to Dawn. “ You're not dancing?”

“Too tall,” she said, her wistful eyes level with his own. Then her face tensed. She glared past him.

Kiran turned and saw Clea and Eloise approaching. Almost bumping into Dawn, he stepped back against the wall. The music swelled in his ears as a rush of drumbeats ended the song. He applauded fiercely, ignoring the people near him.

When the drums began again, he couldn't ignore Clea in front of him, saying, “Good evening, Kiran.”

Clea. Standing opposite her, he remembered the way she'd treated him on her first day in protocol class. Each time he bowed apology to Alamar, who had not yet released him from the punishment, her sneer was sure to be seen, a sneer remindful of her brother, Raynor.

Kiran had been ten years old when he met Raynor, but he'd never forgotten:

A curbside in the streets of Rington, capital city of the Eastland. A blond boy in a temper, beating a terrified young horse for being terrified. Unable to endure the sight, Kiran had run out into the street, crying, “Stop! You must stop!” And laid a hand on the other boy's arm.

The boy had shaken himself free of Kiran's grasp, flinging him to the ground under the very hooves of the maddened animal. And continued the beating, laughing at Kiran's frantic efforts to scramble away.

A stray miracle landed on my head that day and took me out of harm's reach.

It was only later that Kiran learned it was Raynor Errington who had almost killed him for casual sport. He could have forgiven the fright he got himself, but not the cruelty toward an innocent horse. Time had not softened his ill opinion of the young Errington. He had neither seen nor heard anything of Raynor to change his mind. Rumors of the young lord's reckless whims were frequent.

Kiran knew that a sister could be different from her brother. He didn't condemn Clea for being Raynor's relation. However, he'd seen her taunting Bryn mercilessly, seeming to take pleasure in it, goading other Feathers to do the same.

And now she was smiling at him in the Temple's Grand Hall. Her gown was pink like the inside of a shell, a gold necklace fit for a princess adorned her throat, and the hand she laid on his chest sparkled with rings. “Why aren't you dancing?” she asked.