The Light of the Oracle (2 page)

“This journey I'm on,” he said, “includes the purpose of finding new handmaids to serve in the Temple of the Oracle. As you may know, these handmaids and the male acolytes who also study there receive the best education in Sorana. Some handmaids progress to the rank of priestess.” He paused. “ Your daughter would be suitable to become a handmaid.”

Bryn nearly choked on her tea. Sweat ran over Simon's face, as if he labored in the sun instead of sitting in the cool of a stone cottage. The skin around Nora's eyes jumped as though bitten by unseen insects.

“I don't see how that can be, sir,” Nora protested. “The girl is nothing but a dreamer. Not good for anything but talking with the air, idling about in the woods with nothing to show for her hours away.”

Bryn opened her mouth to say she knew better than to talk with the air, but Renchald spoke first. “Come now, madam. I have been Master Priest for more than a decade. Do you believe that I am mistaken?”

Bryn's mother shook her head, her narrow face whitening as she looked at the floor.

“Those who serve the Oracle see what others miss,” the Master Priest went on. “A child born to such a calling is often thought to be a dreamer.”

Bryn swallowed more tea, gulping back a hundred questions.

“Can she read or write?” Renchald asked.

“Why would the daughter of a stonecutter learn to read?” Simon answered mildly.

“The daughter of a stonecutter,” Renchald answered, “might have no reason to learn. But a priestess of the Oracle must be able to read the messages of kings and queens.” He turned to Bryn. “Would you like to study such things?”

Bryn swished the dregs of her tea and then set down her cup. “I
can
read and write,” she said. She met her mother's outraged eyes. “Dai taught me.” Without the Master Priest's presence, Nora would surely have shouted in anger. Bryn addressed Renchald, explaining, “The village priest. Dai.”

“Ah.” If he knew of Dai, he didn't say. “How long has he been teaching you?”

“For many years. I've read all his books several times over.”

“Ah,” he said again, and a spark of unreadable feeling flickered in his eyes.

“I don't understand.” Simon sounded as if someone had told him the quarry where he'd worked all his life was not a place to cut stone after all.

“The gods keep their ways hidden,” Renchald answered.

The god
s. Ever since Bryn could remember, her
mother had called upon the gods, asking why they had made her bear five sons, then finally given her the daughter she had prayed for, but such a daughter! A girl who burned the supper if asked to mind it, who flitted about the fields and woods, coming home with sap stains on her threadbare clothes and foolish lies on her lips—lies about people she had never met and places she had never been. Why, Nora had demanded, would the gods send her such a child?

Her father asked the gods for their blessing every morning and evening, his prayers a tumbling mutter that meant little to Bryn. And though Dai had taught her the rudiments of the pantheon, most often he spoke of the gods as if they were malicious tricksters who would trip a man on his path for the pleasure of seeing him stumble. “
Winjessen is a sly one, but it's Keldes you must look out for—Keldes wants more subjects for his kingdom of the dead.
…”

Bryn wanted to ask Renchald what made him think she could be a handmaid in the Temple. But he was speaking to her parents, his ring glinting as he raised a hand. “Do you give your consent for Bryn to travel to Amarkand? There she will be with others of her kind. She will serve the gods.”

Others of her kind!
Bryn's heart swelled. Were there others in the world like her? Perhaps they, too, had mothers whose faces never softened when they were near. The Master Priest had said that sometimes handmaids became priestesses of the Oracle. Could anything on earth be more wonderful?

Simon wiped the sweat from his face with his dusty
sleeve, leaving tracks of grime on his forehead. “She is our only daughter.”

“She will bring you honor,” Renchald said.

Nora shrugged. “When would she go?”

“If you are willing to part with her today, I will take her with me now,” said the Master Priest. “If we leave soon, my companions and I will have time to reach Tunise by evening. The journey to the Temple will take two more days.”

Bryn looked at the lines on her father's face, lines like grooves in a beloved carving. He held out his hand. “Come here to me, girl.” He put a finger under her chin. “It's a chance for you. Shall you go?” And she knew that if she said no, he would not give his consent.

Looking past her father through the open doorway, Bryn nodded. When Simon folded her into his arms, she hoped her tight embrace would tell him how much she would miss him.

“ You have my blessing, Bryn,” he said.

She faced her mother next. “My blessing, daughter.” Nora's kiss was cold as sleet on Bryn's cheek. She spoke to Renchald. “What should she take with her?”

The Master Priest stood. “The Temple will supply her with everything she needs.” He looked down at Bryn. “Unless there is something you particularly wish to bring?”

In her mind the girl counted over her belongings. She had one other dress, but it was even more stained than the one she wore. No shoes, and she had outgrown her old coat; she was supposed to make herself
another but she'd put it off, for the weather was warm. She kept some pretty rocks near her bed, but somehow when she looked at the Master Priest's stern eyes, she couldn't bring herself to mention them. She shook her head.

Renchald gave a formal bow. Her parents bent nearly to the floor.

At the threshold, Bryn turned back. “Tell my brothers goodbye,” she said.

Outside in the glare stood Nirene, Sendrata of Handmaids. As Sendrata, it was her job to oversee all the handmaids within the Temple of the Oracle; to make certain they obeyed the rules of the Temple, from rising at the gong to snuffing candles at the end of the day.

Nirene regretted being part of this expedition. She'd much rather be attending to her duties back at the Temple, where her authority was firm, than be here, suffering in the sun, a distant shadow to the Master Priest. The only reason she'd been obliged to travel with him was because of Clea Errington.

Clea. Sixteen-year-old daughter of Lord Bartol Errington, the most powerful man in Sorana's Eastland and distant cousin to the queen. Brought up in royal splendor, now Clea would have to adjust to being only one more handmaid in the Temple. Instead of lacy gowns, she'd be expected to wear blue student robes. The spacious bedchamber that had been hers in her father's castle would give way to a small cell separated from her sister handmaids by nothing more than a
curtain. No longer would she be waited on hand and foot; she'd have chores assigned to her.

Traveling with the Sendrata of Handmaids was supposed to help the girl reconcile herself to such changes, but Clea had done nothing but complain: Why must she ride at the rear of the procession? Why were she and Nirene given second-rate rooms at the inns where they stayed? How dare she be made to wait for food when she was hungry? The wine was no better than vinegar….

Now she stood beside Nirene at the end of the procession, wrinkling her pretty nose. “How long must we wait in this sinkhole?”

“Patience,” Nirene answered sourly. She watched as the Master Priest led the scrawny stonecutter's daughter toward her. Bolivar, captain of the Temple guards, marched close behind them, his hand on the bridle of the white mare the girl had been riding.

“Nirene, meet Bryn,” Renchald said when he drew near. “She will become a handmaid in the Temple. I put her into your care.”

Nirene bowed: Sendrata of Handmaids to Master Priest. Renchald bowed quickly in return. “Bryn, meet Nirene, Sendrata of Handmaids to the Oracle.”

The girl's eyebrows were strongly arched like birds in flight; she had odd teak-colored eyes, which she lowered properly when she bowed. Her bow itself was appallingly inept, however. Her palms hardly met before flopping open as her back hunched and straightened, but if Renchald was offended by her ignorance, he
concealed it. He spoke to her politely. “I believe we passed a rectory?” he asked.

Bryn nodded, biting her lip.

“We will stop there on our way out of the village so you can say farewell to this priest who taught you,” he said. Before she could reply, he turned away, walking to his horse.

Bryn's glance fell across Nirene and then went to Clea.

Lord Errington's daughter had hair the color of dandelion flowers; she wore a dainty bonnet trimmed with yellow ribbons. Lace adorned the collar and cuffs of her dress, silky flounces her skirt. Soft leather boots fit her feet so well they had obviously been made just for her. It would have been hard to find a greater contrast to the stonecutter's daughter, with her tangled brown hair hanging loose down her back, stained smock so skimpy it was almost indecent, and bare feet covered with scratches and calluses.

Nirene touched Clea's shoulder. “Meet Clea,” she told Bryn. “Like you, she will study in the Temple.”

Bryn smiled with surprising warmth. She bowed to Clea.

Lord Errington's daughter flinched. “He can't mean it,” she said disgustedly to Nirene. “
She
is going to Amarkand?”

A wary look passed over Bryn's face.

“The Master Priest has chosen her,” Nirene answered.

Clea's eyes glittered spitefully. “But she's so … dirty. Rather like a rat.”

Under Clea's stare, Bryn's cheeks began to burn red beneath the smudges on her face.

“In the Temple, you will be sisters to one another,” Nirene promised, not believing her own words. “Now, mount up. We are moving.”

Clea mounted expertly, her foot light on the stirrup, springing to sit sidesaddle. Bryn grasped her mare's neck, pulling herself astride the horse like an untaught boy, the hem of her smock riding up to her knees in the process. Once mounted, she threw both legs awkwardly over one side of the saddle.

Clea laughed unpleasantly. “I spoke out of turn,” she said. “What rat could ride with such grace as that?” She guided her horse to one side of Nirene while Bryn rode on the other, and they followed the Temple procession.

Bryn turned to Nirene. “Are you a priestess?”

Nirene gritted her teeth.

Clea gave a loud sniff. “Can't you see she's not wearing the robes of a priestess? She may be Sendrata of Handmaids, but she's still a
handmaid
—and she'll never be a priestess.” She smirked. “The gods did not find her worthy.”

Stung by Clea's words—however true they might be—Nirene seethed. She'd have liked to throw Clea from her horse and see her dragged in the dust. It was something the Sendrata of Handmaids could order. But Clea's father was too important a patron of the Temple to risk his disfavor. Nirene contained her anger with silence.

Bryn too kept quiet as they passed through the
village of Uste once more. The people stood in front of their wretched little shops, bowing. A grubby lad with a tuft of sooty hair waved wildly at Bryn, and when she waved back, a grin split his face.

On the edge of town the Master Priest halted in front of a dilapidated rectory. The building had once been painted red, as was suitable, but only peeling strips of dull color remained. The keltice knot carved in the door was nearly invisible in the weathered wood.

Bryn almost fell as she slid from her horse. She bit her lip again, looking anxiously at the rectory.

The Master Priest approached on foot. “Come, Bryn,” he said. “ You too, Nirene.”

They mounted broken steps. The door opened to a musty entryway. The unmistakable smell of sour wine greeted them as they passed into the rectory itself, where a few crumbling pews faced an altar. A single candle, set upon a dingy altar cloth, burned before a woefully faded image of the god Solz. An old man in tattered robes lay sprawled beneath shelves stuffed with books. Several empty wine bottles were strewn beside him.

Bryn rushed forward. She bent to the man, shaking his shoulder gently. The reek of wine was overpowering.

“Dai,” Bryn whispered. “Dai, wake up!”

He stirred, but didn't open his eyes. “Bryn?” he mumbled. “G'on—take any book.”

“Dai!”

“Step away from him,” said the Master Priest.

The girl stumbled as she took hasty steps backward.

Renchald's deep voice sounded eerie in the impoverished rectory. “Won't you pay your respects to the Master Priest, Dai?” His gold keltice ring shone in a band of light where dust motes danced.

The man's lids fluttered. He gazed up at Renchald through bloodshot eyes, then began a fruitless scramble to get to his feet. He kept tumbling over. “Szorry,” he muttered.

Nirene could barely contain her disgust. Stinking drunk under the very nose of the gods! Well, this so-called priest wouldn't live much longer. Nirene's practiced eye sized him up:
Not only very old. Sick enough to be near death's door
.

Dai stopped trying to stand. He sat, gray head swinging slowly from side to side. His bleary glance found Bryn, and he began to laugh in a strange despairing cackle. “G'bye,” he said. “Always knew … they'd come for you, Bryn.” His hand flapped toward the door as he looked up at the Master Priest.

“ You knew?” She seemed puzzled.

“Remember—” Dai began, but then groaned heavily, clutching his chest. The sound of his breathing filled the rectory as he struggled for air.

“Dai?” Bryn flung herself to the floor beside him. “Dai?”

“No,” he gasped out. He pitched backward, his body twitching like a tired fish, eyes wide and popping. His skin began turning blue.

Bryn caught one of his flailing arms, but he pulled
it away. He didn't seem to see her, gazing fixedly at the wall beyond. She looked around wildly. “Help him!” she cried.

The Master Priest kneeled next to her. He cradled Dai's head in his large hands as the old man thrashed about. Dai went rigid. A long deep sigh escaped him and then he was still.

Bryn tugged at his shoulder. “Dai, please, please.” When he didn't move, she sank back on her heels, panting like a winded animal.