The Light of the Oracle (11 page)

Jacinta set a cup and steaming teapot on Bryn's desk. The exquisite little cup had a scalloped rim glinting with gold leaf. Ilona added a dry drift of tea leaves to the bottom of it.

When everyone was supplied, Ilona rang a bell. “Pour the water,” she directed. “We will say the invocation to the Oracle as the tea steeps.”

Bryn poured, watching the heated water cover the tea leaves, plumping them. She murmured the invocation with the others. Ilona rang the bell again; its silver chime reverberated with an oddly piercing note.

“The tea leaves are from Lord Abernam of the
Southland. He expects a superior harvest of grapes this year. He asks for a vision concerning the quality of the wine that will be brewed in his new casks.

“Sip your tea. Await the vision. When it arrives, inscribe it on your parchment exactly as it appears to you.”

Along with the other students, Bryn lifted the delicate red and gold cup, and took a drink; it was so small it held only a few sips.

She closed her eyes, wondering if the Oracle would grant her a vision. She didn't have long to wait before she felt a sensation reminiscent of the alabaster chamber, as if liquid light were pouring into her. Her forehead tingled.

A room full of wine casks appeared to her. The casks looked newly made, the workmanship fine, the wood carefully shaped and banded with metal struts. A man, frowning in concentration, poured deep red juice into one of the casks.

Bryn looked carefully at the man so that she might describe him. He had a small, jagged scar on his left cheek, and his hair was thinning. He must be important in some way, she thought. Why else would the Oracle show him to her?

But her attention was drawn away from the man and focused on the dull bands of metal circling the casks. Her vantage changed and she could see
inside
the casks, where more metal strips were nailed, reinforcing the bands on the outside.

A breeze rushed past her ear.
Lead has been beaten into the metal. Those who drink the wine will sicken.

The words were spoken in the tone that Bryn recognized from her dream on the golden couch, the bell-like certainty of the voice of the Oracle.

Prophecy.

Bryn's eyes flew open. She dipped her quill and began to write.

The prophecy that named leaden strips as a poisoning agent in Lord Abernam's wine was the first of Bryn's predictions to be verified. She took to prophecy like seed to the wind. As summer ripened toward autumn and autumn grew cold, she outstripped more experienced students, rising to head of the prophecy class, with Clea a close second behind her. Furious over not being first, Lord Errington's daughter never missed an opportunity to insult or irritate Bryn outside class.

“Bryn,” she would say sweetly, “the second privy from the right among the latrines didn't look clean this morning—see to it, won't you?” And then would come her mocking laughter.

Eloise always seemed to be nearby, and she would chime in: “Dawn, when you go out today, don't forget to bring your pet rat.”

With the days growing shorter, Bryn and Dawn had to get up long before the sun to finish cleaning before the gong sounded. The scrub-water was icy. As they worked, they made up extravagant curses for Clea and Eloise.
May Clea live in a latrine. May Eloise meet with a woodpecker who mistakes her for a tree
.

Brock continued grinning and joking his way
through his studies. He questioned all the instructors past their patience, then laughed off the scowls and punishments he earned. He prophesied with vigor and flair, but he was always getting himself in trouble for having visions that strayed far afield from whatever assignment Ilona had given. The fact that his prophecies were unvaryingly true didn't sway the First Priestess from giving him low marks; she wanted Brock to follow instructions. But the curly-headed smith's son simply smiled and went his own way.

As for Kiran, he often remained silent throughout a class. His behavior was so different from Brock's that everyone but Bryn was surprised when the swan-chosen and owl-chosen young men became good friends.

A day's ride north of the Temple of the Oracle, in the city of Bewel on the edge of the Lyden Desert, Selid dipped her quill.

She had developed a reputation as a fine scribe, but it brought her no pleasure; she was afraid of drawing notice from the Temple. She never gave her true name to her customers, of course; everyone knew her as Zera.

More than half a year had passed since her ordeal in the desert, but Selid still sometimes awoke believing she heard the Temple gong. Then she'd open her eyes and realize that she was beside her new husband, Lance, a carpenter of Bewel—Lance, whom she loved with passionate tenderness, and from whom she hid the secret that she had been consecrated to Keldes, Lord of Death.

If an unknown handmaid had not given her water, her bones would be picked clean by now, sinking into the desert sand. She often thought of the girl's kindness and hoped she had not been punished too harshly.

Selid had tried, at first, to resist the carpenter's love. She knew that each day she lived was borrowed from Keldes by the mercy of Monzapel, Goddess of the Moon, who guided and protected her. It was unclear how long the goddess could intercede—the slender silver thread that kept Selid alive would snap one day. She didn't know when.

Lance had persisted in courting her. Perhaps he'd known from the beginning that she was only pretending she didn't care for him as he did for her, for who could not love the good carpenter? His love eased the agony Selid had felt over being cast out of the Temple.

Lately she had felt Keldes stalking her. The Lord of Death had begun walking through her dreams wearing Renchald's face. Was it premonition? Did the Master Priest seek her? Selid didn't know. Maybe he believed she had died. He had once thought she would become First Priestess. Did he remember that he had taught her how to conceal herself from other prophets who might be looking for her? He had called it “placing an etheric cloak.” She practiced the technique daily without knowing whether it was working. The only thing she could be certain of was that despite being stripped of her feather, her powers of prophecy had not diminished.

Yes, prophecy had followed her—surviving the painful secret ceremony consecrating her to Keldes, and all that had come afterward. A red cardinal lived in the branches of the spruce tree outside. Since leaving the Temple, Selid had learned that she didn't need tea leaves to see visions—they would arise,
unbidden, in the midst of the market or the middle of the night.

Now, she pulled the candle a little closer. She trimmed the nib of her pen. Lance had gone to bed hours ago while she scribed. He thought working by candlelight would strain her eyes, but she liked the quiet of night.

Lance would not like to know what she was writing now. It would worry him, and so she kept it to herself. Sitting alone, Selid defiantly practiced writing visions.

Practiced writing them in the style of the Master Priest.

South of where Selid lived, the handmaid who had saved her life ran along the Temple path toward the pond. It was Velday, day of freedom from classes.

When Bryn decided to slip away for a walk in the woods, she didn't have any idea that a curse was laying a trap for her.

She whistled for Jack, but the dog didn't appear. She knew Kiran was in the library; he had mentioned, grudgingly, that if he wanted to understand the math lessons, he'd need to get help from Brock.

Bryn followed the footpath that would pass the pond and veer into the trees. As she ran, a movement caught her eye. A collection of small outbuildings stood not far from the pond, and something had darted between two sheds.

Bryn stopped, peering ahead, thinking she'd glimpsed Eloise's cloak—a cloak with a distinctive pattern of cascading feathers woven into the fabric.

Hoping to gain the trees before being spotted, Bryn hurried on. Where Eloise was, Clea was generally close by. She didn't want to encounter the two of them if she could avoid it.

As she came close to the woods, some thistledown appeared in the air ahead of her.

It was much too late in the year for a real plume of thistledown to be floating about. Autumn had long since stripped the trees and turned the thistles to dry, shriveled husks.

This plume shone through the cold as though lit from within by silvery fire. It moved, leading away from the path to the woods, going toward those sheds by the pond where Eloise might be lurking.

Bryn hesitated. She wanted very much to go roaming through the peaceful trees. She looked hard at the sheds. Yes, that was definitely Eloise's cloak peeping out from a corner.

The thistledown floated lightly, as if beckoning toward the place where Eloise was hiding. Were she and Clea lying in wait? Bryn was in no mood to listen to the Feathers' taunts.

As she stood irresolute, the thistledown faded; its light winked out and its gossamer fibers disappeared. Whatever it was trying to tell her couldn't have been truly important, or it would have persisted, she thought. She turned and headed down the path toward the trees.

She hadn't gone far into the woods when she heard crying.

A rock formation higher than Bryn's head bordered the path on the left. As she approached it, the crying grew louder. Curious, she left the path to look round the side of the rock. Dead leaves matted the earth under her feet as she crept past thorny brambles.

Huddled against the rock face was a wailing handmaid. Yellow strands of her hair bunched against the rich collar of her cloak. Her eyes streamed tears, her nose was red and her body heaved with sobs.

Clea.

When she saw Bryn, she clapped one hand over her mouth.

“Are you hurt?” Bryn asked, wondering what could make Clea cry.

Clea shook her head. She put a dainty handkerchief over her nose and blew. Red-rimmed eyes looked up at Bryn. “ You wouldn't understand.” She waved dismissal. “Go away.”

Bryn stopped, half turning, then squared her shoulders and faced Clea. “ You're not hurt, then?”

Clea wiped more tears. “If you must know, I'm crying because my father wants me to be head of
every
class, and I can't be,” she sobbed.

Her father? Astonished, Bryn watched the other girl compassionately. Was that the reason Clea always put herself forward, trying to outdo everyone else? Bryn thought of Simon, and the lines of patience in his face. She'd never considered what it would be like to have a different sort of father.

Clea jerked her head in the direction of the Temple.

“I can't tell anyone
there
that I'd rather not study so hard. They wouldn't understand.”

Bryn thought of Eloise's harsh wit; of Charis's eager gossip; of Narda's hooting laugh. Such friends as those would certainly not understand.

Serves you right. You picked your friends.

Clea's sobs were subsiding. “No one expects anything of you,” she said, sounding more like herself. “It's not fair. You could become First Priestess one day, and you don't even care if you do.”

Bryn shook her head with certainty. “I won't become First Priestess.”

“No? Have you
seen
?” Clea was speaking of prophecy.

“I haven't seen,” Bryn said. “But I know it won't be me.”
And I hope it won't be you.

Clea mopped her face with the handkerchief. “My brother's the lucky one. Next in line to the throne, he spends
his
time learning how to behave when he becomes king, while
I'm
expected to become First Priestess.”

“Becomes king? But I thought the Princess Zorienne's health was improving.”

Clea tossed her head. “That sickly thing? She won't outlive the queen. Everyone knows it. My brother and I are all that's left of the descendants of Great King Zor.”

Bryn shivered, remembering what Kiran had said about the possibility of Raynor Errington becoming king:
The gods help us all if that should happen
.

Clea interrupted her thoughts. “My father will be visiting the Temple for the Winter Solstice Festival. He won't be pleased to hear that a stonecutter's daughter is best at prophecy.” She rubbed her eyes, fresh tears sliding down her cheeks.

Bryn felt the old anger start up. But Clea looked so miserable with her tear-streaked face. “Never mind,” Bryn said kindly. “ You leave me and everyone else behind in protocol, not to mention oration and ritual. And isn't Lord Errington pleased about your feather? You're happy with it, aren't you?”

Clea shifted a little, bracing herself against the rock behind her. “ Yes. I wouldn't trade it for any other.” She paused, then said in a friendlier tone, “Would you like to see it?”

Bryn drew back a little. Dawn had said that only close friends showed feathers to one another. Did Clea really want to be her friend? And she had no feather of her own to show; she didn't carry the wind with her.

But this was a chance. If Clea ceased to be her enemy, maybe Eloise would stop baiting Dawn and Jacinta. Maybe the other Feathers too would relent. “I suppose so,” Bryn said.

Clea peered round the rock. “There's no one behind you, is there? I don't want anyone else to see me this way.”

Bryn shook her head no.

“Sit here.” Clea patted the ground. “ You can show me the wind after you see my feather.”

Bryn looked about. The chilly air was quite still. “The wind comes to me when it wishes to—it's not as if I can call it forth.”

Clea smiled warmly. “Never mind. I still want to show you my feather.”

Watching Clea's fingers reach inside the neckline of her robe, Bryn felt uneasy. She stood poised to run, not sitting as Clea had invited her to do.

Clea pulled out a long, narrow case attached to a fine gold chain. She unfastened the chain. She opened the red laces that topped the case and drew out a feather, dull black fringed with iridescent gray. “ You see?” she said, putting aside the casing and getting to her feet. She waved the feather slowly; it carried the scent of carrion to Bryn's nose.