The Light of the Oracle (10 page)

As Dawn passed the gong to enter the circle she was glad no breeze blew. A breeze might have disturbed the ribbons concealing her bandage. Her wounded head flared painfully with every beat of her heart, and she concentrated on staying upright, knowing everyone would be gawking at her height. Why, oh why didn't Vernelda listen to her prayers? She'd been taller than she wished to be for more than two years, and her bones kept lengthening.

But none of that would bother her anymore if only the heron would choose her.

As she stared at the blank sky, her moments within the circle seemed to last a long time. No bird appeared. Her waiting ended with the sound of the gong. Dawn tried hard not to show her hopeless disappointment. Now she would never be given a feather. At least she had her study of the stars. The heavens might be confusing, but learning to read star charts was better than drifting toward old age as a senior handmaid serving in the dairy, or worse yet, the dining hall.

The first handmaid to receive a feather was Willow, the quiet lord's daughter who sometimes shared an eating table with Dawn, Alyce, Jacinta, and Bryn. A rock wren hopped onto her hand, presenting her with a soft gray feather. Willow might be invited to be a member of the Feathers now, but she would not accept—she didn't truckle to Eloise.

Clea Errington's slippers twinkled with jewels beneath her glimmering robe as she walked to the center. She did not have to wait more than a minute before her bird appeared in the sky. Even from a distance Dawn recognized the brooding flight of a vulture. The bald bird alighted in front of Clea, its wrinkled neck and coarse quills a preposterous contrast to her satin and gold. Clea bowed low to receive her feather.

As the vulture winged away, Dawn thought she caught a whiff of carrion on the still air. She wanted to shake her fist at Keldes, the god who ruled vultures.

Why would the Lord of Death reward Clea's cruelty so? What had she ever done to deserve distinction, other than be heartless and haughty? With the power to cast unbreakable curses, what would she become?

Dawn watched disconsolately as Bryn passed into the circle, walking with her usual light step. Her robe looked terribly old and plain, but Jacinta's blue ribbons drew the eye to her piquant face.

A minute passed, while Bryn stood clasping her thin hands. Dawn's eager gaze saw nothing on the horizon. Another minute went by, but the sky didn't stir. Or did it? A small breeze sprang up, the first one of the day. It ruffled the grass in front of Bryn.

Now there was no mistaking it. A true wind rose, but only within the circle, blowing swiftly, flapping Bryn's robe against her legs. The wind mounted into a sudden gale, pulling the ribbons loose from Bryn's hair so that they streamed around her like blue zephyrs. The girl bowed to its force, and the soft knot of her hair came loose; the unbound strands whipped wildly about her head.

Dawn put her fist to her mouth to keep from shouting. Chosen by the
wind
? Was it possible?

The wind pushed against Bryn until she lay full length on the ground, face up, eyes shut. A gust slid underneath her, lifting her easily. Bryn didn't squeal or fuss; she lay in the arms of the wind as though dreaming on a fine bed. A few moments later, it set her gently down. A small whirlwind spun a shower of grass
cuttings as it whistled to the edge of the solstice circle. It flew at the Master Priest, causing his stiff robe to flutter. Then it was gone.

The delight Dawn felt about Bryn being wind-chosen nearly choked her when she caught sight of Clea. In the excitement, Clea must have forgotten to hide her emotions beneath the pretty mask of her face. She stared at Bryn, blue eyes glazed with hatred, mouth flattened to a slit of fury.

Standing high on his platform, Renchald watched everything. A Master Priest might live and die without ever seeing the wind choose a handmaid or acolyte. But the gods had ordained that he, Renchald, would rule the Temple when a wind-chosen girl entered it.

His predecessor had warned him: the wind-chosen made exceptional prophets and prophetesses; they could enhance the reputation of the Oracle with their wondrously accurate predictions. But if they managed to align themselves with all the powers of the wind, they became dangerous, able to summon cyclones at will, quite impossible to control.

Except with a curse.

Master Priests of the past had made a practice of curbing the wind-chosen before they could develop the full powers of their gift. A vulture-chosen curse, secretly ordered and secretly carried out, would nullify any threat Bryn might pose in the future.

Renchald would not be hasty. Bryn might remain quiescent for years to come. He knew what to watch
for; knew how the wind's latent power would show itself in the beginning. The smallest touch of a breeze would start to follow her wherever she went. It would not be enough to draw notice unless one were alert.

The Master Priest intended to be alert.

Bryn asked Dawn to explain the significance of being wind-chosen, but Dawn had little to tell her. “I haven't seen or heard much of any lore about it except that it's a terribly unusual gift, which is why so many people keep staring at you.”

Bryn twisted her mouth. “I thought I must have a smudge on my nose.”

Dawn shook her head vigorously. “People stare at anything strange. They stare at me because I'm tall. Being wind-chosen is
much
more unusual.”

Bryn sighed. “But what does it
mean
?”

“I believe you'll be allowed to join the prophecy class just as if you'd been given a feather,” Dawn answered. “And I know that Ellerth looks after your gift.” She threw up her hands. “Beyond that, I'm sorry, I don't know.”

Bryn searched for a book that would explain, but found to her irritation that the Temple library was staffed by Feathers each time she went in. She reluctantly approached Charis for help, but the hummingbird-chosen young woman led her to a shelf
full of dusty volumes, none of which had anything to do with the wind, or gifts, or even Temple history. Bryn heard Charis tittering gleefully with Eloise, and left the library with nothing to show but the dust on her fingers.

However, Dawn had spoken truly as far as her knowledge went. The First Priestess included Bryn along with the newly bird-chosen handmaids and acolytes when she issued formal invitations to her prophecy class.

Overflowing with curiosity and awe, Bryn and Willow found their way to their first prophecy class together. The Sendrata of Handmaids stood at the door to greet students as they entered. She pointed them to their places.

Fluted pillars stood at the four corners of a wide room lit by high windows and filled with simple wooden desks. Each desk was supplied with a neat stack of parchments, an inkwell, and quills. A long marble table at the front of the room held rows of small red teapots and cups. Four large steaming kettles stood on an iron range. Tapestries graced the walls, showing handmaids and acolytes bowing to birds of every description; accepting feathers long, short, wide, and narrow.

Bryn took the seat indicated for her beside Willow and fidgeted as she waited for everyone to assemble. Kiran came in, and a few minutes later Brock, the owl-chosen acolyte; Nirene seated them next to each other on the opposite side of the room from Bryn. When all were present, Nirene left.

The First Priestess advanced to the front of the room. Her eyes shone in her bronze face like black olives as she silently regarded the students. She carried a slim ivory stick. She bowed formally: First Priestess of the Oracle greeting prophecy students. The class rose as one to bow in return: humble students of the Oracle greeting First Priestess.

Ilona motioned them to their seats. She waited until the rustles and whispers died away, and then allowed silence to grow until it took on power.

“We have a number of new students,” she said at last. “ You are welcome. Our class time is precious and will not be used for introductions.

“All of you are gifted with prophecy. You have a great deal to learn, not only about the fine points of how to interpret your visions, but also about how to treat your prophecies and those of others.” Her gaze roved over them. “Some of you consider yourselves knowledgeable because you have attended this class in prior years. I expect you to listen as closely as the new students. Early lessons bear repeating.”

She paused. “ You must obey three basic laws if you wish to serve the Oracle. First: Never speak of your visions outside this class to anyone for any purpose. Second: Treat every other prophet's visions with the same sacred confidence as you do your own. Third: Neither conceal any vision from me and the Master Priest nor pretend to visions you do not have.”

For a moment, Bryn saw the image of a golden eagle hovering behind Ilona; its wings overlaid her arms, its head was like a helmet. “If you break any one of
these laws, the gods will know it,” Ilona said. “They will not pardon you.”

Bryn's heart began fluttering against her ribs as if it were a bird trapped in a cage. She clutched the edge of her desk. She had lied to the Master Priest, told him she remembered nothing more of her dreams when she had slept in the alabaster chamber.

But she did remember.

“The punishments for transgressing these laws are both secret and severe,” Ilona was saying.

That was certainly true, Bryn knew. Hadn't Kiran said that Selid let it be known she was keeping back some of her visions? Why had she done so? Bryn had seen an entire procession follow the Master Priest's lead, bypassing Selid in the desert. It could only have been by his order that she was left in the Lyden without water. Very likely he now believed her dead.

Bryn felt the urge to run to the First Priestess, throw herself on her mercy, confess the lie, tell the vision, beg, in the name of the gods, to be forgiven. But then she heard Kiran's words echoing in her mind:
If Renchald knew Selid was practicing prophecy outside the Temple, he'd hunt her down.
…

She could not betray Selid. She could not.

Why had the thistledown guided Bryn to the alabaster chamber; why had the Oracle chosen her? She could not believe it was chance. The same light that had shown her where to go for the vision of Selid had urged her not to reveal what she had seen.

Bryn stared at Ilona, cool and knowing and enigmatic. Would the First Priestess guess her mind?

Were the gods, perhaps, simply biding their time before striking?

Sweat stinging her skin, Bryn wiped her forehead with her frayed sleeve.

The First Priestess was speaking again. “Many, if not all, of those who begin learning to prophesy feel glad to be chosen. But serving the Oracle is painfully difficult. For every happiness she bestows, the Oracle gives a double measure of sorrow. She sends visions, yes. A few may be pleasant, but most are not.” Ilona's dark eyes were serious.

“Consider what it means to see the future. Whereas sometimes dire events can be changed for the better by a timely prediction, just as often they cannot be altered and the best that may be done is to prepare for hardship and catastrophe.”

She tapped her palm lightly with the ivory. “Some-times you will perceive images that you do not understand until there is no time left to give warning of what they foretell. When you are unsure of the meaning of a vision, simply write an exact description of what you have seen. Do not attempt interpretation unless the meaning is clear to you.”

She pointed her stick. “ You have a question, Brock?”

The owl-chosen young man rose. “Why is the Oracle cryptic? Why not send either a clear vision or no vision?”

Ilona didn't change expression. “It is not the Oracle who is cryptic, but the acolyte who is inept.” Her eyes swept the room. “My answer speaks to all of
you, not only to the acolyte wise enough to ask the question. The Oracle never sleeps, but
you
sleep even when you seem to be awake. The remedy for your native blindness is to develop awareness—the quality of being truly awake. This is more difficult than you can imagine.”

She tapped the stick sharply against the table that held the teapots. “ You will learn to clear your minds of hopes and wishes, for your desire to see a particular future will blind you to what the Oracle shows. For instance, if you hope to see water, even if the Oracle sends a vision of fire you will not perceive fire; you will see mist or some other delusional mixture of your wishes and the Oracle's knowledge.”

She pointed to the row of teapots. “Those who seek guidance from the Temple's prophets are directed to send us dried tea leaves from tea they have previously drunk. Some of the essence of the person who drank the tea remains in the leaves. The Oracle reveals the destiny contained within the essence.” She lifted the stick. “Another question?”

Brock was still standing. “If destiny is contained in essence,” he asked, “how could a prophetic warning lead to a different future?”

Ilona's eyes shone darkly. “All people can make choices,” she answered. “For example, if a lord is warned about the opium he has been smoking, what choices might he make, Brock?”

Brock waggled his eyebrows. “He could quit his pipe?”

“If he were wise,” Ilona answered. “Then again, he
might decide to hide his pipe, and continue smoking in secret. The decision he makes will cause his essence either to strengthen or to weaken.” She spread her hands. “ You will encounter thousands of examples during the course of your time serving the Oracle.

“A prophecy may be simple or confusing. The most straightforward prophecies foretell accidents, especially those involving children; most of these accidents can be averted. The most convoluted prophecies apply to powerful adults with many secrets.”

She waved Brock into his seat. “The curiosity of the owl-chosen is legendary, but I must ask you to hold further questions. Now we'll proceed with drinking tea and seeking visions.” She pointed to a row of handmaids. “Eloise, fill the teapots. Jacinta, Narda, and Charis, hand round the cups and pots. I will deliver the tea.” Eloise began filling the small red and gold teapots with hot water from the kettles.