The Oracle's Queen (38 page)

T
he sun was sinking behind the mountains when Tamír rounded a bend and was struck with a dizzying sense of familiarity.

The vista before her was the exact scene from her vision in Ero. The narrow track twisted out of sight, then back into view in the distance. There stood the incongruous gate straddling the road, painted with bright colors that glowed in the fading light. She knew it was real, but it still seemed like something from a dream. As they rode closer, she made out stylized dragons painted in brilliant shades
of red, blue, and gold twined around the narrow opening, as if they were alive and guarding this sacred way with fangs and fire.

“Illior's Keyhole.”

“Beautiful, isn't it?” said Arkoniel. “Do you recognize the style?”

“I saw work like that in the Old Palace. It's centuries old. How long has this been here?”

“At least that long, and it's only the most recent one,” said Iya. “Others have fallen to ruin and been replaced. Legend says a gate already stood here when the first Skalan priests followed a vision to the sacred place. No one knows who built the first gate, or why.”

“We are taught that a dragon built the first gate, from the stones of the mountain, to guard Illior's sacred cavern,” Lain told them.

“My people tell the same tale of our sacred places,” said Saruel. “Of course, dragons still do things like that in Aurënen.”

“Dragon bones are sometimes found in the higher valleys. Now and then we even get little fingerlings at the shrine.” Lain turned back to address the others. “I should warn you, if any of you see what appears to be a little lizard with wings, pay it proper respect and don't touch it. Even fingerling dragons have a nasty bite.”

“Dragons?” Wythnir's eyes lit up with a child's excitement.

“Tiny ones and very rarely seen,” Lain replied.

They had to dismount at the gate and lead their horses along a narrow, rocky trail. Afra lay up a narrow pass less than a mile or so beyond. Presently the cleft opened into a deep, barren place. It was already shrouded in shadow, but several red-robed priests and a handful of young boys and girls carrying torches were waiting for them. Behind them, the trail twisted away into the shadows.

Ki sniffed the air, which carried the smell of cooking.
“I hope they saved us some dinner. My belly thinks my throat's been slit.”

“Welcome Queen Tamír the Second!” the lead priest cried, bowing low with his torch. “I am Ralinus, high priest of Afra in Imonus' absence. In the name of the Oracle, I welcome you. She has watched long for your coming. Praise to you, the Lightbearer's chosen one!”

“Did Imonus send you word?” asked Tamír.

“He did not have to, Majesty. We knew.” He bowed to Iya next. “The Oracle bids me welcome you, too, Mistress Iya. You have been faithful and accomplished the difficult task set for you, all those years ago.”

The priest caught sight of Saruel and held out his tattooed palms in welcome. “And welcome to you, daughter of Aura. May you be of the same heart with us, here in the Lightbearer's place.”

“In the darkness, and in the Light,” Saruel replied with a respectful nod.

“Quarters have been prepared for you, and a meal. This is most fortuitous, Majesty. A delegation of Aurënfaie arrived three days ago, and await your coming at the guesthouse across the square from your own.”

“Aurënfaie?” Tamír glanced suspiciously at Iya and Saruel. “Is this your doing?”

“No, I've had no contact with anyone there,” Saruel assured her.

“Nor have I,” said Iya, though she looked very pleased with this news. “I did think some might show up, one place or another.”

The torchbearers took charge of their horses and led them around the final bend in the trail.

Pinched in a deeper cleft between two towering peaks, Afra at first glance was nothing more than a strange configuration of deep-set windows and doorways carved into the cliffs on either side of a small paved square. This was ringed with tall torches set into sockets in the stone. Carved fretwork and pillars of some ancient design framed
the doors and windows, similar to the decorative work on the Keyhole, Tamír noted absently.

What captured her attention at the moment, however, was the dark red stone stele standing at the center of the square between two brightly burning braziers. There was a bubbling spring at its base, just as the wizards had described, welling up in a stone basin and flowing away through a paved channel into the shadows to her left. In the waning daylight, the leaping flames cast dancing shadows across the inscriptions that covered it.

She touched the smooth stone reverently. The Oracle's words to King Thelátimos were carved there in Skalan and three other languages. She recognized one of them as Aurënfaie.

“ ‘So long as a daughter of Thelátimos' line defends and rules, Skala shall never be subjugated,' ” Ralinus said, and all the priests and acolytes bowed deeply to her. “Drink from the Lightbearer's spring, Majesty, and refresh yourself after your long journey.”

Tamír again felt that deep sense of connection and welcome. Suddenly the air around her stirred, and from the corner of her eye she caught the faint, misty shapes of spirits. She couldn't tell who they were, but their presence was comforting, nothing like Brother's cold anger. Whoever they were, they were glad she'd come.

There was no cup. She knelt and rinsed her hands, then scooped up a handful of icy water. It was sweet, and so cold it made her fingers and teeth ache.

“Can the others have some?” she asked.

The priests all laughed at that. “Of course,” Ralinus told her. “The Lightbearer's hospitality knows no rank or limit.”

Tamír stood back as her friends and guard all took a ritual sip.

“It's good!” Hylia exclaimed, kneeling to drink with Lorin and Tyrien.

Iya was the last to drink. She moved a bit stiffly after
the long ride, and Arkoniel gave her his arm to help her back to her feet. The old woman pressed her hand to the stele, then to her heart.

“The first Ghërilain was called the Oracle's Queen,” she said, and Tamír was amazed to see tears in her eyes. “You are the second queen foretold here.”

“And yet you took the name of a different queen, and one of the lesser ones, at that,” Ralinus noted. “I've wondered about that, Majesty.”

“The first Tamír appeared to me in Ero, and offered me the great Sword. Her brother murdered her, just as so many of my female kin were murdered by my uncle, and her name was all but forgotten in my uncle's time. I took it to honor her memory.” She paused, staring down at the silvery ripples of the spring. “And to remind myself and others that such ruthlessness must never be repeated in the name of Skala.”

“A worthy sentiment, Queen Tamír,” a richly accented man's voice said from the shadows across the square.

She looked up to see four men and a woman approaching. Tamír knew them for Aurënfaie at once by the sen'gai they wore, and the fine jewelry at their throats, ears, and wrists. They all had long, dark hair and light eyes. Three of the men were dressed in soft-looking tunics of woven white wool, over deerskin trousers and low boots. The woman wore similar clothing, but her tunic reached below her knees and was slit up both sides to her belt. The fifth, an older man, wore a long black robe. His fringed, red-and-black sen'gai, facial markings, and the heavy silver earrings dangling against his neck marked him as a Khatme. The woman and one of the younger men wore the bright red and yellow Tamír recognized as the colors of Gedre. The others wore dark green of some other clan.

As they came into the brighter light by the stele, Ki let out a happy whoop and ran to embrace the younger Gedre.

“Arengil!” he exclaimed, lifting their lost friend off his feet in his excitement. “You found your way back to us!”

“I promised I would, didn't I?” Arengil laughed, regaining his feet and clasping Ki by the shoulders. Ki was half a head taller than he was now, though they'd been the same height when Arengil had been sent home. “You're bigger, and you've sprouted a beard.” He shook his head, then caught sight of Una among the Companions. “By the Light, is that who I think it is?”

She grinned. “Hello again. Sorry I got you into so much trouble that day. I hope your father wasn't too angry.”

His aunt arched an eyebrow at that. “He was, but Arengil survived, as you see.”

Tamír took a hesitant step forward, wondering what his reaction would be to the changes in her appearance. Arengil's smile only widened as he closed the distance between them and hugged her.

“By the Light! I didn't doubt the seer, but I didn't know what to expect, either.” He held her at arm's length and nodded. “You look very good as a girl.”

The Khatme man looked scandalized by such familiarity, but the others only laughed.

“My nephew had a great deal to do with our coming, and would not be left behind,” the other Gedre told her. Her Skalan was perfect, with only the slightest accent. “Greetings, Tamír, daughter of Ariani. I am Sylmai ä Arlana Mayniri, sister of the Khirnari of Gedre.”

“I'm honored, lady,” Tamír replied, not sure what to make of all this, or how to address them. The Aurënfaie used no formal titles, apart from the clan chief, or khirnari.

“Greetings to you, as well, my friends,” Sylmai said to Iya and Arkoniel. “It has been some time since we saw you in our land.”

“You know each other?” asked Tamír.

Iya clasped hands with Sylmai and kissed her on the cheek. “As she says, it has been years, and only a single
visit. I'm honored that you remember us. Arkoniel was only a boy.”

Sylmai laughed. “Yes, you're much taller now. And this?” She touched her chin as if stroking a beard and grimaced playfully. “Even so, I'd know you by your eyes. The blood of our people shows there. And you have more of our cousins, too, I see,” she added, smiling at Tyrien and Wythnir.

Tamír extended her hand to the dour Khatme. “And you, sir? Welcome to my land.”

“I am honored, Tamír of Skala. I am Khair í Malin Sekiron Mygil, husband of our khirnari.” His voice was deep and his accent much thicker. “One of my clan stands with you, I see.”

Saruel bowed. “I am honored to meet you, Khair í Malin. It has been many years since I've been home.”

The two men wearing dark green sen'gai came forward last. The older one looked no older than thirty, and the younger one was hardly more than a boy, but that was no measure with the 'faie. They might be two hundred years old, for all she knew. They were also two of the handsomest men she'd ever seen, and her heart tripped a beat as the taller of the two smiled and bowed to her in Skalan fashion.

“I am Solun í Meringil Seregil Methari, second son of the Khirnari of Bôkthersa. This is my cousin, Corruth í Glamien.”

Corruth took her hand and bowed, giving her a shy smile. “I am honored to meet a queen of Skala. My clan stood with your ancestor against Plenimar in the Great War.”

“I am honored to meet you,” Tamír replied, feeling a bit shy herself. The beauty of these men, even their voices, seemed to weave a spell, making her heart race. “I—that is, I understand you are not here by chance?”

“Our seers claimed there was a queen in Skala again, one who bears the mark of Illior,” Solun replied.

“I see for myself that you are indeed a woman,” said Khair of Khatme. “Do you still bear the mark?”

“Your birthmark,” Arengil explained. “It's one of the signs we're to know you by. That, and that moon-shaped scar on your chin.”

Tamír pushed back her left sleeve, showing them the pink birthmark on her forearm.

“Ah, yes! Is it as you remember, Arengil?” the Khatme asked.

“Yes. But I'd have known her without it by those blue eyes.”

“But you've only just arrived, and you have business of your own here,” Solun interjected. “You should eat and rest before we talk.”

“Please, won't you join us?” Tamír said a bit too hastily, and saw the annoyed look Ki gave her.

Solun's answering smile made her heart beat that much faster. “We would be delighted.”

R
alinus ushered Tamír across the square to another of the guesthouses. Beyond a thick, age-blackened oak door lay a spacious chamber carved into the cliff. Other doors led deeper into the cliff to the guest rooms. Young acolytes showed them to their rooms along one of the corridors.

These were very small, hardly more than cells, and simply furnished: just a bed, washstand, and a few stools. But the walls were whitewashed and painted with bright colors, like the Keyhole. Tamír's chamber had one tiny window covered with a screen of fretted stone. Ki took the room next to hers, and the rest of her people were distributed along the same corridor. There appeared to be a veritable warren of little rooms stretching back into the rock.

Tamír washed quickly and let Una help her change her travel-stained tunic for one of her gowns. Ki came in as they finished.

“That's something, those 'faie turning up like that,” said Una, folding Tamír's tunic away on top of a chest.

“After all the stories I've heard of them, it doesn't really surprise me,” Tamír replied, tugging a comb through her hair. “What do you think of them so far, Ki?”

He leaned on the doorframe, picking at a hangnail. “Good-looking folk, I guess.”

Una laughed. “Beautiful is more like it! And I liked the way that young Bôkthersan blushed when you greeted him, Tamír.”

Tamír grinned. “I haven't met an ugly Aurënfaie yet.
Do you think there are any?” she asked, still struggling with the comb.

Ki strode over and took it, then worked the tangle free, muttering, “Maybe they don't send the ugly ones abroad.”

Una gave him an odd look, and Tamír realized that no one had ever seen Ki do this for her. Suddenly self-conscious, she retrieved the comb and said lightly, “Maybe the ones they think are ugly are still good-looking to us.”