The Light of the Oracle (18 page)

Dawn made a face. “ You're coming to
me
? You're the proper size to look delightful in any rag, but what am I to do? I'll have to find
two
rags in the castoffs closet and sew them together to make something long enough to cover me.” She rolled her eyes.

The castoffs closet was where gowns discarded by wealthy handmaids from past years were kept. Poorer handmaids were allowed to choose from among them.

A memory glimmered in Bryn's mind of the day of her first Ceremony of Birds. She recalled Jacinta's deft hands winding white ribbons over Dawn's bandage. The dove-chosen young woman always looked lovely and elegant. “We'll ask Jacinta to help us,” Bryn said.

They found Jacinta behind her curtain. Dawn launched into their plea. “Vernelda favors you. Help us!”

Jacinta smiled, soft eyes glowing warmly. “How would you like to look?”

“I don't want people staring at me because of my height,” Dawn grumbled.

Jacinta cocked her head. “People
will
stare at you, Dawn. Why shrink from it? Give them something to admire when they stare.”

Dawn drooped. “No chance of that.”

“But you're exotic,” Jacinta said. “If you can give every spare minute to sewing, you'll look like a queen.” She turned to Bryn. “What about you?”

Bryn bit her lip. She often felt invisible. “I don't want to look as drab as I usually do.”

“That will be terribly easy,” Jacinta assured her.

Several days before the winter solstice, a messenger from Emperor Dolen of Sliviia arrived at the Temple of the Oracle. Ilona was summoned to Renchald's sanctum to hear the message.

Renchald stood looking out at the dark winter evening. Candlelight reflected off the silver streak in his hair. He turned to her and bowed.

“Lord Morlen is dead,” he said without preliminary. “Killed by a young woman with a knife.”

Ilona's legs felt suddenly weak. She sat quickly. “Bryn foresaw his death.” She calculated the timing in her mind. “A year and a half before it occurred.”

He stared down at her. “Precisely. As I suggested to you long ago, Bryn is an extraordinary prophetess. Yet under your training, she has produced no prophecies of note for a year.”

Ilona's throat constricted. “But—”

He held up a hand. “Tell me, what is her progress in class?”

She swallowed. “Her visions are foggy, lacking in detail.”

“But are they truthful?”

“As predictions, her prophecies are useless. They can be understood only
after
the events she foretells take place.” Ilona compressed her lips. Was he holding her responsible for the way Bryn's gift had failed? But hadn't he said that Clea had never cursed the stone-cutter's daughter?

Yes, Ilona was quite sure he had. It was after she'd told him she suspected Clea of casting a curse unlawfully. He had solemnly assured her that after meeting with Clea he had determined her innocence.

Could the Master Priest have lied?

“Something is interfering with Bryn's abilities,” Renchald said. “I intend to test her prophetic strength by training her in paired prophecy. If she can regain her abilities, she will serve the Temple well. More prophecies such as that of Lord Morlen's death would greatly benefit the Oracle's reputation.”

Ilona's thoughts spun as she listened.
Did the Master Priest lie to me, First Priestess of the Oracle?

“I'll begin teaching Bryn after the solstice,” he went on. “She can be paired with Kiran.”

“Kiran?” Ilona choked out.

“As I've told you before, he's more able than he lets on. He may not do well in your class, but he's chosen by the black swan. He's fully trained; pairing Bryn with him may help her become an able
prophetess again.” The Master Priest bowed to Ilona. “When classes resume, send the stonecutter”s daughter to me.”

Kiran and Brock entered the Temple's Grand Hall for the Solstice Festival. The candelabra shone as brightly as they had the year before, but Kiran's eyes didn't linger on the flames. His glance roved from the tables laden with food and wine to the troubadours' platform as he searched the crowd for Bryn's face.

He saw the Master Priest, authority draping him as if his high rank had been woven into the threads of his robes. Watching him nod gravely to wealthy lords, Kiran was reminded again that Renchald ruled the Temple as surely as Alessandra was Queen of Sorana.

Clea glittered in the midst of a group of Feathers and Wings. Kiran instantly drew his eyes away from her. He and Brock started through the throng toward the stage, away from the Master Priest, away from Clea and her admirers.

He spotted Bryn standing with her friends. She glowed in a gown the color of her eyes, soft golden-brown, open at the neck. Her hair was arranged so that tendrils curled about her face. When she saw him, she smiled, warm and bright as goldenrod in a summer field. Beside her towered Dawn in white, her gangliness transformed into grace, slender hands waving as she talked.

Kiran and Brock plowed through the crush of people to join the young women. Brock lifted Willow's
hand, kissing the ends of her fingers, murmuring, “ You're the Oracle of my heart.”

Next to Willow, Alyce giggled. “What does your Oracle prophesy?”

Willow smiled. “Music and dancing.”

Kiran edged in next to Bryn and Jacinta; the wall behind him felt comfortingly solid, steadying him as he watched the entrance of the Gilgamell Troupe.

The four troubadours ascended the stage and bowed to the hall. Avrohom, the red-haired singer, resplendent in a cream costume embroidered in black, stepped to the edge of the stage, waiting for silence. His roguish glance swept the hall. “Ladies and gentlemen! Again we have the good fortune to celebrate with you the return of Solz's power, the winter solstice.” He lifted his hand and brought it down with a flourish. The lutist strummed, the harpist plucked his strings, and the drums began.

People had cleared the center of the floor. Brock and Willow were already joining other couples ready to dance.

Kiran turned to Bryn. “Will you dance with me?” But she was staring hard at the troubadours and didn't reply. At Kiran's elbow, Dawn reminded him, “It's the first time she's heard Avrohom sing. Sometime tonight you must dance with me, Kiran, or I
won't get to dance at all. I won't embarrass you this year; I've been practicing the steps.”

“Of course.” Kiran touched Bryn's shoulder. “Bryn? Dance with me?”

She gave a start. “Dance with you?” she answered breathlessly. “ Yes, oh yes.”

They made their way to the dance floor just as the first song ended. The troupe didn't wait for the roar of applause to finish before launching into the next tune, a lively melody that urged dancing the
zenga
, a sprightly set of steps Kiran had learned years before from Selid. The zenga involved couples standing across from one another, stamping up and down and back and forth, punctuating their steps with hand-clapping.

Kiran was surprised to find that Bryn kept missing the steps; several times she even trod on his toes. When she did, she blushed deeply. She clapped at the wrong moments. Kiran could see her trying to do better, a frown puckering her forehead, her lips moving to count the strokes of the drum. It didn't seem to matter. The harder she tried, the worse she danced. How unhappy she looked, alternately blushing and turning pale, sweat on her face, fumbling the steps. Kiran longed to comfort her, but didn't know how. It wasn't the sort of dance where he might have steered her.

When the song ended, he bowed deliberately: humble horse-trainer to lovely friend. Bryn stood stricken, chewing her lip.

The music began again, a medley of gentler
harmonies. This time, the dance would be the
trell
, a gliding dance during which partners kept close to each other. Kiran leaned toward Bryn. “Another dance?” Maybe he could help her through this one. His left hand would be on her back, his right hand joined with her left.

Her eyes met his, incredulous. “Please,” he said. He placed his hand against her back, feeling her warmth; took her hand, which was icy cold.

Kiran gave himself over to the music; Bryn beside him, slipping and stumbling as if her shoes were stuffed with pebbles. When she stepped on his feet, he only held her closer, lifting her along, dancing for both of them.

When the music ended, Kiran drew her very near for a moment, to let her know he didn't mind that she had danced so badly.

He stepped back, reluctantly dropping her hand. Bryn's eyes looked almost feverish. She pointed toward the wall. “Dawn's there alone. Will you give her a turn?”

As they walked back to Dawn, Kiran hid his disappointment. What if he were trapped again as he had been the year before, dancing with one handmaid after another? Bryn was a terrible partner.
And yet, she's the only one I want.

Dawn greeted them happily, tapping her foot, eager to dance. Bryn took her place leaning against the wall.

As Kiran and Dawn reached the dance floor, the troupe started another fast-paced tune. The zenga again. Kiran clapped and stomped, pounding the floor. Opposite him, Dawn drove up and down, dancing hard, believing this would be her only chance for the evening. By the time Kiran noticed that others were staring at him and Dawn, the dance was almost done. A flurry of drumbeats closed the song.

Avrohom pranced to the edge of the stage, calling over the crowd. “I honor you, beautiful lady in white!” He pointed to Dawn. “My lady, I must be your partner. Please?”

Dawn was looking behind her for a lady in white. “He means you,” Kiran murmured. “Say yes. That is, if you would like to dance with him.”

In the hush that grew after the troubadour's question, Dawn could be heard panting. “Don't fall,” Kiran whispered, putting a hand on her elbow. “He's asked you to dance.”

“Oh!” Color flooded her face. “Oh, yes,” she called up to the troubadour.

“Thank you, lady.” Avrohom gestured behind him at the other musicians. “My brethren can play a melody without me.” And he leaped to the floor.

People made way for him. He bowed low in front of Dawn. When he straightened, the top of his fiery head barely reached her chin. He held his hand out to her, and she clasped it rapturously.

Kiran saw Clea nearby. He turned hastily, wanting to hold Bryn again.

“Good evening, Kiran.” Clea blocked his way.

Kiran looked around for Gridley. Why couldn't the peacock-chosen young man stick to Clea?

Since their fight, Gridley and the rest of the Wings had stopped jeering at Kiran. Though they could hardly be called friendly, they were at least civil. But now, when Kiran wished he were around, Gridley was nowhere to be seen. “Excuse—”

“Dance with me.” Clea stepped closer.

Glancing at Dawn, Kiran stopped himself from shoving Clea aside as he wanted to. He wished he'd never met her and fervently wished he hadn't been forced to know her as well as he did. He guessed she wasn't only inviting him to dance, but telling him that if he refused to be her partner, she'd do something dramatic. And whatever she chose to do, Kiran suspected Dawn would be the one to suffer.

Dawn had waited too long for her moment of happiness. Kiran couldn't bring himself to chance anything that might spoil it. He would simply have to endure one dance with Clea.

The music struck up again. Another medley. Kiran put his right hand out stiffly and allowed her to clasp it. He began the steps of the trell, merging onto the floor with the other couples, forcing himself to keep time.

“It's a pleasure to dance with a man who knows where to put his feet,” Clea said. “What a pity you had such a clumsy partner earlier.” She looked smug.

Kiran didn't answer.

“ You have so many abilities, Kiran. Why do you keep them hidden?”

He wouldn't look at her face, focusing instead on the sleeve of her gown. Glistening garnets had been sewn into the cloth from which it was made.

“Answer me,” she said, beginning to pout.

“There isn't an answer.”

She tossed her head. “Just because we can't tell others about pairing together doesn't mean you have to keep such a distance.” She leaned in close, dancing on tiptoe, her lips at his ear. “One day I'll be First Priestess, and you'll be the Master Priest.”

Kiran stiffened his arms still more. “I will never be the Master Priest.”

Would the medley ever end? He glanced at the troubadours' platform. The drummer played rippling beats; the lutist's fingers traveled up and down the neck of his instrument; the harpist plucked his strings, brushed them, strummed them, caressed them into a blend of heady notes. Kiran began to fear that this dance wouldn't end until Avrohom and Dawn dropped from exhaustion. They weren't showing any signs of tiring; they danced like birds flying in tandem, soaring ecstatically on and on.

“ You can't avoid destiny.” Clea's voice cut through the music.

Kiran's chest hurt from the effort of reinforcing his inner barriers against her. His arms ached. He wanted to stop abruptly and send Clea spinning. But if he did, the people near him would trip, perhaps fall.

Dawn's dance would be ruined, would be remembered only for how it ended. Badly.

And so he kept dancing.

At last the music finished. Kiran dropped his arms. He turned away from Clea rudely, not bothering to bow. He began pushing through the crowd, regretting that the dance had ended when he was at the far end of the hall from Bryn.

The troupe announced that it was time to eat and drink. Everyone started milling about. Kiran was glad of his height, which made it easy to shoulder his way past others. Ahead was the wall where Bryn drooped like a flower overcome by frost. Kiran tried to catch her eye, but she wouldn't look at him.

“One moment, Kiran.” Renchald's sonorous voice had never been more unwelcome to Kiran. Controlling his irritation, he bowed to the Master Priest.