The Light of the Oracle (20 page)

“Don't thank only me,” Kiran answered. “Brock will be here too.”

“I will?” Brock said, acting shocked.

In the first prophecy class of the new year, Bryn slumped in her chair. Deciphering her vision was like trying to read a page of smeared ink. She saw no point in setting it forth.
For that matter, why do I study any of the subjects taught at the Temple? I'll never be a priestess
. During math class, numbers would jump about in her mind like pebbles knocked wide by a quarry hammer. She
found history fascinating but suspected a great deal was being omitted. Geography was interesting too, but since most of the handmaids didn't leave the Temple grounds, the rivers, mountains, and oceans on maps seemed farther away than the moon and stars.
Farther away than Dawn
.

Bryn had watched her friend ride out of the Temple gates, tall and straight beside her husband Avrohom, famous troubadour. Dawn's hair had been gathered into ribbons tied in bridal knots, her gloved hand waving goodbye.

Bryn fiddled with the ragged end of her quill pen. Her blank parchment reproached her as the First Priestess collected the prophecies. When the gong sounded, Ilona said, “Bryn, remain after class.”

Clea paused beside her. “Are you feeling well, Bryn? You look like death.”

“Better than smelling like something that died long ago.” Bryn made her way to the front of the room, where the First Priestess stood beside the marble table that held the prophecy teapots and cups.

“ You're to come with me to meet with the Master Priest,” Ilona said calmly.

Bryn bit her lip. Her poor showing in prophecy must have come to the Master Priest's attention. She'd been expecting the Temple to forbid her to continue studying with the bird-chosen. She had no feather, and the wind had deserted her.

For a moment she thought Ilona would say more, but the First Priestess turned and led the way out with her usual quiet dignity.

When they arrived in Renchald's sanctum, Bryn knew, this time, what bow to make: humble student to Master Priest of the Oracle. She'd grown since the day she'd occupied the same seat in front of Renchald. She feared him much more now than she had then. She hardly dared look at him. When she did, she noticed that there was more silver in his hair, and that the lines in his austere face had deepened.

“A year and a half ago, you predicted the death of Lord Morlen at the hands of a young woman wielding a knife,” he began. “ Your report seemed unlikely at the time, but we have received word from Sliviia that Lord Morlen has died in the manner you described.”

Bryn remembered the rushing winds of prophecy, the visions seen while dreaming in the Oracle's alabaster chamber. Such things seemed removed from her now; as if someone else, not she, had found the golden couch in the shining room. She had since learned that the deep chamber was reserved for priests and priestesses who had undergone special purification. “The vision was true, then?” she asked faintly.
If Lord Morlen has died, then the dream of Selid must also have been a true vision.

“ Yes. You are a gifted prophetess.”

She met his cool, opaque stare. “Perhaps I was when I arrived. I no longer see clearly.”

“ You're troubled,” he said. “Something is interfering with your prophecies. I can teach you a method for improving the clarity of your visions.”

“
Troubled” by a curse
, she thought.
How much does he know?

What if he could teach her something that would dispel Clea's curse? What if she could learn to hear the voice of prophecy again; what if her visions, borne upon the wind, could return clear and full once more?

If not, I can be no less than I am now.

“What would I need to do?” She looked directly at the Master Priest, willing her eyes to show nothing, like his.

“ You would train with me personally. You need not bring your quill. Everything must be remembered, not written. And you must not discuss this training with any other person.” The keltice ring glittered on his hand, reminding her of the day they had first crossed paths.
She will be with others of her kind. She will serve the Oracle
, he had said.

The vulture statue loomed upon its pedestal. Would she go mad, watched by those black marble eyes and the Master Priest? But if she didn't learn from him, she might as well journey back to Uste. Either that or stay on in the comfortless Temple, becoming a senior handmaid, abandoned by the wind and bereft of visions.

The gyrfalcon tapestry glared at Bryn as she nodded.

Spring had come, scenting the breeze with leafy buds and new flowers. The city of Tunise was thriving. Throngs of people worked to repair the roads from the ravages of snow, rain, and frequent travelers.

The talk of the town was the Gilgamell Troupe. They were to perform an open-air concert on the commons. There was hardly a person in the city who planned to stay home.

Lance persuaded Selid to go with him. Though eager for the music, she was hesitant about showing herself among so many.

“What if the Master Priest has spies posted?” she said.

“Wear your ugliest kerchief and no one will know you,” Lance answered, grinning, his brown eyes alight with anticipation of hearing the famous troubadours. The Temple didn't hold the same fear for him as it did for her. Hadn't Monzapel protected and guided her thus far?

When they arrived on the green, mingling with the happy crowd, Selid felt queasy. She told herself to
relax, but couldn't seem to do it. Hundreds of strangers jostled and shoved for position, pressing close, too close. Lance didn't seem to be bothered. He staked out a place for Selid and himself, then forgot about everything but the Gilgamell Troupe.

From the moment the troubadours appeared, Selid knew she shouldn't have come. She saw a glow around them, an ethereal glow that had nothing to do with the sunshine. She tried to ignore it, but the more she did the more it gathered force until it pressed against her forehead, a fisted hand of light.

She couldn't darken her visionary eye. Light beat and pulsed, blending with the music, swarming in her head. She fought for calm, fought for air.

She murmured to Lance that she wasn't feeling well and went stumbling through a forest of rough shoulders and sharp elbows toward the edge of the crowd, not looking back to see if Lance followed or not, overcome by the driving need to get away. He did follow, of course. He caught up with her and helped her, clearing a passage to the perimeter of the crowd. There Selid sank to the ground, holding her head and panting.

Lance sat beside her, an arm around her, murmuring quietly. “There, it's all right. It's all right.”

“Selid? It's surely you?”

The voice close to her ear startled Selid badly. She looked up into a familiar face bent over her.

Dawn. It was the tall handmaid she had known in the Temple of the Oracle. It seemed ominous that she should appear at such a moment, when Selid was struggling to shut out the Oracle's light. What was she
doing here? She wasn't dressed as a handmaid. More like a princess, in flowing white. Sapphires sparkled at her wrists and throat. Maybe she was an apparition.

Dawn helped Lance get Selid on her feet and lead her farther from the crush of people. “Selid, I knew it was you the moment I saw you. Something about the way you hold yourself. I'm so glad. I was afraid …” Dawn stopped.

Selid forced herself to gather her wits. Dawn's face was becoming strangely lit, as those of the troubadours had been. The light threatened to thrust Selid into a future she did not want to see. Refusing the Oracle had never been more difficult!

“ You look lovely, Dawn. This is Lance, my husband. I'm sorry to be unwell, but I really must go home.” Each word was an effort.

“Is it far?” Dawn asked. “I can take you to the inn where we're staying. It's close by.”

“No, thank you, no. I just want to go home.” Selid groped for Dawn's hand, not sure, when she found it, if she was pleased or sorry to find that it was real. “Please promise you won't report seeing me.”

Dawn squeezed her fingers softly. “I'm not part of the Temple anymore. Even if I were, I'd never tell the Master Priest where you are. I've worried about you ever since you disappeared.”

Selid could feel the truth in Dawn's words. “Thank you.”

“But you must visit me when you're better.” Dawn told them where the Gilgamell Troupe would be staying. “I'm with them,” she said, smiling. “I've
married Avrohom. The troupe has to be terribly careful to hide where they're housed, or they'd get no peace. Adoration has its price, you know. But I trust you, Selid. Come and find me.”

Selid blinked, not sure she had understood what Dawn said. More light poured from the tall young woman's face, so bright it blurred her features.

“Thank you,” Lance said. “We'll find you, or, if you're careful, you can come to us.” He gave Dawn quick directions and then they parted.

As they walked home, Selid's head pounded and sparks of sharp light jabbed her eyes so fiercely she was unable to see where she was going. Lance kept his arm around her waist.

Selid went to bed. There, encroaching visions beset her. She poured sweat, using everything she knew to prevent herself from being taken over by prophecy. When she finally slipped into sleep, she dreamed again of the Master Priest. He thrust the keltice ring close to her eyes; sharp and burning, it cut through her sight, her mind, her soul. She tried to look away but couldn't. All the worst moments of her life rushed upon her at once; she couldn't fight off the memories. Then Bolivar appeared, menacing her with a long, killing blade.

Selid tried to cry out, to call for Lance, but her throat closed uselessly.

When the new day arrived, she concealed her exhaustion, telling Lance she was well, she didn't know what had come over her, he needn't worry about her. And had she really heard Dawn say she was married to Avrohom, the famous singer?

Lance assured her it was true. He kissed her and left for the job he had with the carpenters' guild, finishing cabinets and banisters in Lord Evensol's new mansion.

Selid decided not to go to the Little Best, although Sir Chance expected her. He and his patrons would have to do without her; she wasn't fit for company. Restlessly, she fed the chickens and cared for her horse. The cardinal swooped close as soon as she stepped out of the house, nor would it leave her as she completed her chores. Finally, she darted into her workroom, shutting out the persistent bird.

There she paced the morning away, fighting the Oracle's light until her strength was gone.

She wrapped her shawl close. Sunlight played over the ripples of the wooden mosaic as she sank, defeated, onto the couch Lance had put there for her comfort. She closed her eyes.

This time, when the prophecy came, she let it take her.

Borne upon beams of dazzling light, Selid found herself standing in an alcove built into a massive stone pillar, one of dozens of pillars supporting a domed hall. If an eagle had flown to the ceiling within this dome, the bird would have appeared as a speck high above. Along the marble floor stood crowds of lords and ladies.

Twenty feet away sat Queen Alessandra on a throne. She wore her crown, though it seemed heavy for her slender neck and stooped shoulders. Her eyes, deep-circled and sad, shone with dignity and command. Near her stood soldiers in green doublets, swords at their belts.

Upon a smaller throne, a painfully thin young woman watched the proceedings. An opal tiara sparkled in her black hair; her purple gown was decked with opals, but it was her face that caught Selid's attention. Her skin was translucent, delicate blue veins visible just beneath the surface. Intelligent eyes, far too large in their pale sockets, were glassy with tears that did not fall.

The voice of the Oracle knelled in Selid's mind:
Princess Zorienne, near death, poisoned by the hand of Mednonifer, queen's physician. Not by food or drink, but by the air she breathes while sleeping
.

Then Selid glimpsed her former mentor, the Master Priest, writing a prophecy addressed to Queen Alessandra.

False prophecy
, the Oracle said.

A few days later, Kiran tramped the familiar path next to the pasture at night, Jack by his side. He stopped at the fence where he'd often seen Bryn sitting untouched by the wind. Starlight cast a silver gleam over the ground, lighting the old fence-posts dimly.

Kiran leaned against a post. “How wrong I've been,” he said. “Mistake after mistake.”

Jack perked up his ears.

Kiran lifted his face to the quiet sky. “I should never have paired with Clea.” Earlier that day, Renchald had asked, once again, for news of Selid. This time Kiran and Clea had seen her. Writing a prophecy.

Kiran had severed the pairing immediately, but not soon enough.

The ink in the Master Priest's quill, as he inscribed what Clea remembered, ran like blood.

“I haven't helped Bryn,” Kiran told Jack. “I've helped the ones I despise instead.”

And now the Master Priest wanted to begin pairing him with Bryn.

“I won't,” Kiran said to the sky. “Renchald can leave me in the desert or throw me back in the gutter.” He looked into Jack's mismatched eyes. “And I swear by Ellerth that I won't pair with Clea anymore.”

The next day, Velday, Bryn watched wind dance over the pond, creating ripples across the water. A breeze swished through the fresh grass until it reached the little knoll where she sat alone. There, the air became blank and still. She told herself she should be used to the stillness. But she wasn't.

She heard Jack's bark and saw Kiran coming toward her around the pond with Jack at his side. Her emotions scudded and eddied and stormed as he got nearer, walking with his long stride.

The constraint between them, begun after the solstice dance, had continued. Though they still did chores together, Kiran acted as if what he wanted most was to be left alone. Sometimes he'd pause in his work, looking at nothing. Once Bryn had ventured to ask what was bothering him, but he'd only shrugged his shoulders heavily.