The Light of the Oracle (24 page)

He wouldn't tell them what had happened to cause his injuries. “I fought too many guards at once” was all he would say. The expression in his eyes haunted Bryn—he seemed to be wounded in a way she couldn't see, a hurt that went deeper than bruises. Whatever it was, he kept it to himself.

A breeze kissed Bryn's nose, lifted her hair,
fluttered the sleeves of her gown, brushed through Obsidian's mane. The wind was always with her now, sometimes light as a downy seed, sometimes a gusty roar.

Obsidian gave a loud whinny just as Jack scampered past the stall, barking importantly.

Bryn followed Jack as he ran to the wooden gate and began jumping against it, whining excitedly. She reached the gate just as Selid drew the bar.

Dawn burst through. She threw her arms around Bryn. “Stars and luminaries, it's good to see you.” Dawn turned to Selid. “We would have been here sooner, but had to ready ourselves for the trip to Zornowel, not to mention finagling so as to leave the inn without drawing notice.”

Behind her, four men in nondescript cloaks held the halters of horses. Bryn saw Avrohom's elfin grin peeking around Dawn's shoulder. He winked. “Incognito or we'd never escape those who adore our music.”

Selid motioned the men and horses through the gate into the carpenter's yard. Bryn could hear Obsidian protesting his separation from the five mares that had come with the Troupe. She hoped he wouldn't smash through the stall as he had done at the Temple stables.

Dawn barraged Bryn with questions. “What happened after I left? Brock got my message? Are you all right?”

Bryn held tightly to Dawn but answered none of her questions. Selid took everyone inside, where Kiran
tottered up from the couch. He waved off Dawn's exclamations of pity when she saw his face. He shook hands with the troubadours, then sank back onto the pillows.

Avrohom's fiery hair and vivid blue eyes lit the room as he introduced the other members of the troupe. The lyre player, Negasi, smiled broadly beneath his enormous mustache, his bald head shining. Jeffrey, whose fingers could work such magic upon his lute, resembled a ripe apple with his red cheeks and round stomach. The drummer, Zeb, seemed to take up room for two men as he threw off his cloak, revealing muscled brown arms.

When all the troubadours had said hello, Avrohom turned to Selid. “We're here because your message spoke of utmost urgency.”

“Thank you for coming,” Selid answered. “I'll make tea before we discuss why.” She was already moving toward the kettle on the hob. Bryn helped set out mugs.

When everyone was served, Selid held up a scroll tied with red ribbon. “A message for Queen Alessandra,” she said. “It must get to her safely. None better to deliver it than the Gilgamell Troupe.”

Frowning, Avrohom shook back his hair. “We are troubadours. Why not send your scroll by messenger?”

“The queen herself, not her servants, must read this. It is a prophecy.”

“Prophecy?” Dawn looked askance at Selid. “But—”

“Unknown to Her Majesty, Princess Zorienne is being poisoned by Mednonifer, queen's physician,”
Selid announced. She spoke quietly, but something in her voice reminded Bryn of the way she'd shrieked at the Master Priest as she kneeled in the desert sand.
Ellerth will bury you, Renchald. I have seen it.

“How is that possible?” cried Dawn.

“I received the vision only recently,” Selid told them. “I fear the Oracle has wished me to see it for some time. I only hope I'm not too late. Peril surrounds Zorienne. Unless the poison is stopped, she cannot live much longer.”

They stared.

A long-ago memory took hold of Bryn, of the first time she had heard the Oracle's voice:
Beware his sleeping death
. And she had been pointing at Princess Zorienne!

Dawn stepped forward. “But why must
you
give this prophecy? If the princess is being poisoned, why wouldn't the Master Priest send a warning?”

Selid waved the scroll. “So he will.”

Bewildered, they waited for her to explain.

“I know how Renchald pens a prophecy. I watched him often enough.” Selid held out the scroll. “This is written and worded as though it comes from him.”

Kiran rose up from where he lay. “No,” he said. “If he ever learned of it, he would summon Keldes from the underworld to find you and see you dead.”

Selid shook her head at him. “This prophecy is more important than fear of the Master Priest. Without it, Raynor Errington will rule Sorana.”

Bryn's thoughts spun sickeningly. She thought of Lord Errington standing beside the Master Priest at
the Solstice Festival. Her stomach twisted. “It's Lord Errington behind the poisoning, isn't it?”
Beware his sleeping death.

Selid nodded.

“And no warning has been sent by the Temple,” Bryn said.

Selid nodded again, more emphatically.

Kiran swayed on his feet. “Why is Renchald to have the credit for such a vital prophecy?”

Selid gestured at the homey furnishings around the room. “Because if Alessandra knew it came from a simple scribe, she might never read it. It must appear to come straight from the Oracle.”

Dawn waved her hands nervously. “Isn't it a crime to pretend it comes from the Oracle when it comes from you?”

Selid's lips tightened. “For centuries, those who received the light of the Oracle were revered whether they chose to be part of the Temple or not. Renchald has appointed himself guardian of the Oracle's word—” Her voice cracked. “He isn't. The Oracle's light followed me, even after the Master Priest took my feather and consecrated me to the Lord of Death.” She clasped the scroll, lifting her chin. “When I was dying of thirst, Bryn gave me her water. Now I give Sorana my ink.”

As she extended the scroll toward Avrohom, a breeze flapped against it and Bryn heard a bell-like voice echo in her head:
I give Sorana my blood
.

No
, Bryn tried to say. Her lips felt numb, her throat closed. Not a sound came out.

“Please, Sir Troubadour,” Selid said, “take this to the queen. And when you have done so, write a song about it.”

Avrohom's eyes, usually so merry, were grave as he accepted the scroll. He bowed. “Her Majesty shall read your words,” he said.

Frightened, Bryn looked at Selid. Kiran had warned her that the Master Priest was hunting her. She'd only nodded and said she knew. But what if Renchald found her?
Blood, my blood, is given.

“There's more,” Selid said. “ You must be there when this message is delivered, Bryn. It's you who can bring the winds of change to Sorana.”

Dawn spoke into the quiet, looking very serious. “Winjessen is about to align with both Ellerth and Monzapel,” she said, “and Vernelda will oppose Keldes. Momentous events are poised to happen.”

Kiran dropped back to his couch and watched Selid and Bryn, his uneasiness growing. They knew something they weren't saying; he was sure of it.

His head felt hazy and sick, as it had ever since Renchald had stormed his barriers, leaving him weaker than a newborn colt abandoned by its mother; wobbly on his legs, searching for what he could not find. He didn't seem to be healing. His ribs hurt as much now as they had right after the guards kicked him. Though he'd visited his inner landscape repeatedly, he could only stumble about in a fog, unable to find what was robbing him of strength.

The voices around him seemed distant, as if
spoken by people on the other side of a wall. With an effort, he concentrated. “We'll leave early. You can ride pillion with Jeffrey, Bryn,” Avrohom was saying.

Kiran roused himself. How much of the conversation had he missed? “Obsidian can carry both Bryn and me,” he cut in. “Selid and Lance must come with us too. They're in danger from the Master Priest.”

Silence greeted his words. Zeb began drumming his fingers on the mantelpiece; Negasi and Jeffrey looked away. “Kiran,” Avrohom said, “I'm no healer, but I can see you're not fit to stand up, let alone ride. And if that stallion is everything he's said to be, the Temple guards will be searching for him as hard as they search for you.”

Kiran looked at Bryn. The golden flecks in her eyes were like sparks of sunlight. It seemed to him she shined brighter, now that the wind had returned to her. Who, upon seeing her, could doubt she was the most extraordinary woman in the world?

He forced himself to his feet. “We
must
go with you.” He took three steps before he tumbled.

As promised, Bryn took Obsidian for a run after everyone else was asleep. Riding the stallion quieted her nerves only a little. After she'd returned him to his stall, she crept in to where Kiran slept by Selid's hearth. Jack was curled at the foot of his couch. He opened one eye at Bryn and then sank back into slumber as she kneeled beside Kiran's head.

“Kiran,” she whispered to his sleeping face. “Kiran, I need to thank you.”

He stirred. The bruised skin under his freckles looked sickly in the moonlight. “Because of you,” she said softly, “I was able to lift the curse. I found what didn't belong in my landscape. You were right about that, as you've been right about so many things.” She bowed her head over her hands. “I'm sorry I ever doubted your friendship.”

She was startled when a rough finger brushed her cheek. She raised her head and saw Kiran's shadowed eyes squinting at her. “It's all right,” he whispered hoarsely. He propped himself on an elbow, but then immediately slid down to rest on his pillow again, flinching in pain.

“What did they do to you?” she asked miserably, fear rising in her heart. He looked worse than he had the day before. How could she leave him? What if he died while she was away? “Did Clea curse you?”

“No. Master Priest breached my barriers. My landscape is covered in fog. When I enter it, I can't see anything else, nor can I think clearly. My dream body keeps weakening.”

Bryn took his hand. “ You can't get any weaker.”

“I've done all I know to do.”

She leaned in closer. “Maybe I could help. If you can trust me.”

He didn't pull away, but a small frown appeared between his brows. “Trust you?”

“We could pair with each other to heal you.”

“No. Too dangerous for you.”

“Please, Kiran. It would mean everything to me.”

“Can't risk you.”

“Together we would have more strength, wouldn't we?” She squeezed his hand, willing him to listen. “Please.”

His eyes met hers searchingly. “But you've never paired before, have you?”

“No. But the Master Priest said I was ready.” She spoke firmly, though she felt unsure. “Please, Kiran. What harm could come to me?”

He moved his hand in hers to lace their fingers together.

“Agreed?” she pressed.

“ You must promise to get away if you begin to feel weak.”

“Of course,” she lied.

He stopped resisting. He closed his eyes.

“Will you do it, then?”

“We can try,” he murmured.

“Now,” she urged. “Tomorrow will be too late.”

He gave a slight nod. “Ready, then.”

Bryn prepared herself. Kiran's link, when it reached her, was faint, but it was enough to take hold of. She felt an uneasy thrill as she fused with it.

Their dream bodies stood together on the ground of open pairing, a timeless place in the abanya, lit by clear light. From here, they might go to either of their landscapes, or to a different time; they might travel anywhere in the world.

Kiran's dream body looked even more ill than his physical one, his aura ragged. He nodded to her wearily and led the way into his landscape.

Heavy fog enveloped them instantly. Bryn couldn't
see him anymore. She strode determinedly into the mist, hand outstretched, hoping to find the border of his barriers. When she met a wall she groped her way along it, trailing a hand to feel for any fissure.

Her head spun. Her legs as she walked grew heavier and heavier, as if shot through with lead. Death seemed to seep from the ground and crawl through the air. Her legs wanted to give out, but she pushed on through the dreary fog.

There
. She could feel a jagged break in the wall.

Here
, she called, hoping Kiran could find her.

The break was sealed with something; Bryn felt along the edges of what seemed to be a wedge of stone. Touching it, she felt a deadly sense of futility. She stood with her hands on the wedge, summoning her will to fight.

Beneath her hands, a wind sprang up, a sudden forceful burst of bright air shaped like a quarry hammer. Warm and strong, it pounded the wedge, hammering against the darkness.

The wedge neither chipped nor cracked. It contained a will of its own, formed into density that refused to give in. As Bryn beat against it, her sense of futility deepened. A frightful tiredness weakened her.

No
, she said, renewing her grip on the bright hammer.
I won't be turned aside. I will stay here and swing this hammer forever if need be
.

She swung against the impervious wedge. She didn't know how long she stood there in the dark fog, fighting the block of stone Renchald had set in Kiran's landscape. She only knew that she would keep going
until she couldn't lift the hammer anymore. Weariness filled every part of her dream body, but she wouldn't quit.

At last she struck a blow that suddenly dis-integrated the wedge all at once. The rock exploded into a cloud of dark dust that quickly vanished.

Utterly exhausted, Bryn rested her hands on either side of the gaping breach and called for Kiran.
Are you there? The wedge is gone. Can you rebuild the barrier?

Thinning shreds of mist began drifting away, revealing more of the towering barrier wall. Then Kiran was beside her, the hands of his dream body replacing hers on the breach, his arms spanning the gap.
Yes, I can mend it
, he told her.
Thank you, my love.

Bryn woke with a start. She was sitting with her legs tucked under her, her head cradled in her arms, which were leaning against Kiran's couch. A thin beam of grayish light streamed through the window. It must be near dawn.

The last thing she recalled was being within Kiran's landscape. He had told her he could mend his barriers. And called her
my love.