The Light of the Oracle

  She'd seen a vision of Renchald striding toward her, keltice ring raised like a weapon; Bolivar beside him, wielding a sharpened dagger.

  She must get away from Bewel immediately.

  Beside her, Lance cinched his saddle. Selid had tried hard to persuade herself to leave her husband behind. She didn't want to risk condemning him to the same peril that followed her. But when forced to decide, she couldn't abandon him. To do so would break his heart, and hers.

  “Tonight?” he had said when she told him. “What about the solstice celebration?”

  “With so many in the streets for the celebration, we won't be noticed. I know how you honor Solz, but it's Monzapel who will be guiding us.”

  Lance had given her one long look from his kind eyes. Then he'd nodded and begun packing his tools. Now, he locked the door as if they were going on a temporary journey, though Selid had assured him they would never return.

  “Does it bother you terribly?” she asked, watching him.

  Wrapping her in an embrace, he kissed her. Lance always smelled like freshly cut wood, a mixture of pine and cedar. “It will be an adventure,” he said.

  “Without me, you could live the rest of your life in peace.” She stroked his rough cheek lovingly.

  “ You're wrong. Without you, I wouldn't feel that I lived at all.” He kissed her again. “All's ready.” He turned and mounted his horse.

  Selid stared through the gloaming at the spruce tree, looking for the cardinal. Whistling, she circled the yard, but the bird did not appear.

  They rode through the gate. Lance dismounted to close it behind them. Monzapel opened a pathway of light as they set out into the cold.

  And a streak of red cut through the dark to land on Selid's shoulder.

  Thirteen

  The day after the Solstice Festival, Bryn stumbled out to the field near the Temple's pond, the place where she'd last seen the thistledown. Sitting curled small, she looked out at the water. Its surface was as icy and fixed as the curse over her mind. Dead grasses and weeds surrounded her. A lone larch tree etched bare branches against gray sky.

  A furry muzzle pressed against her. “Jack,” she said. The dog whined softly, then laid his head in her lap.

  Kiran appeared and sat down across from her. He looked different; his hair had been trimmed. He pointed to where, across the pasture, Obsidian galloped. “Look at him run,” he said, and then startled Bryn by adding, “My father was a drunk who dragged me into the gutter with him, but he knew horses better than anyone, and he taught me what he knew. Obsidian is worth all the rest of the Temple horses put together.”

  Bryn didn't know what to say. It was the first time Kiran had told her anything of his life before coming to the Temple. She felt suddenly awkward and shy, just as she had the day she met him.

  He turned to her. His keen cinnamon-colored eyes studied her. “Jack noticed you and insisted we follow,” he said. “He's missed you. Obsidian misses you too.”

  And you, Kiran—do you miss me? She stroked Jack's speckled fur, and felt the color rushing into her face.

  Kiran leaned toward her. “ You missed the festival. What's wrong?”

  Bryn swallowed, thinking she might as well tell Kiran part of the truth—the part that everyone must know. “My visions have grown terribly murky.” She didn't like saying it out loud; the spoken words seemed to give the curse finality. “The Oracle doesn't speak to me, and I don't believe she ever will again.”

  His eyes were steady. He couldn't be surprised, for he'd seen her fall to the foot of the prophecy class. “Why?”

  She wanted to tell him, but Clea's words circled her mind: I'll put death curses on your friends. Don't think I wouldn't.

  “The lighted thistledown came to me,” Bryn said. “I didn't follow.” Her eyes stung.

  “Where did it want you to go?”

  “Toward those sheds, I believe.” She pointed to the outbuildings beside the pond.

  Kiran looked from her face to Jack. A long minute passed as his hands slowly formed into fists. When he spoke, he said the last thing Bryn expected. “She cursed you.”

  “What?” Bryn flinched, startling Jack, who took his head from her lap and then sat on his haunches beside her, ears pricked.

  “Clea. She cursed you. Didn't she?” Kiran's voice was as gruff as she had ever heard it. His face looked hot, his freckles darkening as if singed.

  “But how did you—?” Bryn broke off. She looked about frantically. What if someone else had heard?

  Kiran pulled a brittle stalk from a clump of dry weeds. “If I promise to keep the secret, will you stop looking like a ghost?”

  Bryn gripped her hands together. You're all right, she told herself. This is Kiran. He won't talk about it with others. “ Yes,” she answered. “ Yes, and you mustn't tell anyone.”

  His eyes fastened on her. “If a curse can be cast, it can also be lifted.”

  “But a vulture-chosen curse is forged by Keldes and backed by the other gods.”

  He shook his head. “If the gods want you cursed, I don't hold with the gods.”

  She looked fearfully at the sky.

  “Afraid Keldes will strike me?” He inspected his hands. “Still whole.” He pretended to examine his legs, patted his chest and head. “Aren't you wind-chosen?” he asked, voice gentle.

  She looked at the ground. “I don't know anymore.”

  “Bryn, the gods gave you the wind and allowed me speech with animals.” He touched Jack, and the dog's tail wagged devotedly. “I hold with that.”

  “But you haven't gone against … you haven't done anything against …” At his puzzled look, she rushed on. “I didn't follow the thistledown and now I don't think it will ever help me again. I'm afraid the wind has unchosen me. I don't hear its whispers anymore, don't feel it lifting my hair or brushing against my face. It's all stillness now.”

  There. I've said it. Not only prophecy, but the wind too has gone from me.

  Kiran scooted closer to her, reaching out his hands. He waited for her to take them. When she did, he rubbed her fingers, his skin full of heat despite the frosty air. “Bryn, I'm not sure of much. But I'm sure the gods would not withdraw from you forever after one mistake.”

  Shutting her eyes, she clung tightly to Kiran's hands, praying he was right.

  “Bryn?” he said, as if he thought she might not be able to hear him.

  “ Yes.” Letting go of his hands, she opened her eyes, hoping the wind would touch her. She searched for any movement, any sign of a breeze, but the only thing stirring was a branch of the young larch. A bird had landed on it with a flash of scarlet wings.

  “Look,” Bryn cried, pointing.

  “The red cardinal. Selid's choosing bird.” Kiran cocked his head. “Cardinals normally leave for the winter.”

  The bird flew toward them. They watched it make a circle over their heads before winging away.

  “Is it Ellerth who watches over the cardinal?” Bryn asked.

  “The cardinal belongs to Monzapel. Ellerth governs the wind, though.” Kiran looked into her face. “And the swan, too.” He rose, stretching his long legs. “As I said, Obsidian misses you.” He extended a hand. “He's grumpy without you.”

  Bryn got to her feet. “Thank you for not reporting all the times I've skipped chores to the Sendrata.”

  “I'll say nothing so long as you'll help me now.”

  Bryn resolved to act as if all were well with her again. She knew her friends had been worrying, especially Dawn, who had been scrubbing latrines alone, letting Bryn sleep in. Dawn had been murmuring many prayers to Vernelda and Ellerth, asking that Bryn be looked after.

  Before going to lunch, Bryn washed her face and hands and combed her hair. She entered the dining hall, and took her place. Dawn welcomed her anxiously. “Are you feeling better? Stars and luminaries, you've got to stop looking like death.”

  Bryn forced herself to push through her cloudy despair and smile a little. “I'm much better. No
more ducking out of scrubbing. But you'll still have to wake me in the mornings.”

  Dawn put an arm around her, gave her a quick squeeze.

  As soon as the grace had been spoken, Eloise's voice pierced Bryn's ears. “Each time I begin to feel safe from vermin, I see another rat.”

  “They creep right out of the stone,” Clea replied.

  Her laugh joined Narda's raucous cawing and Charis's humming twitter.

  Dawn had a mug in her hand. She slammed it down so hard it shattered, the milk splattering. “Did you know,” she said, raising her voice into the sudden quiet, “that woodpeckers spend all day looking for grubs? And crows love garbage better than anything else, while vultures are particularly fond of maggots!”

  The entire dining hall seemed to have stiffened into shock, handmaids staring openmouthed and frozen, particularly Eloise, who was chosen by the woodpecker.

  Then Alyce, who had just taken a drink of milk, began to splutter helplessly. Jacinta pounded her back, trying to be helpful while exploding into giggles herself. Willow too went off into gales of laughter.

  As she stared at the three of them sitting across the table, Dawn's frown vanished. She let out a whoop.

  Conversation resumed in a loud buzz. Bryn tried desperately to laugh along with her friends, but all that came out were dry sobs. She covered them up as best she could, hiding her face while the others held their sides. At least no one could hear her crying.

  Desperately, she stifled her sobs. She looked up. Two senior handmaids were bearing down on their table, carrying whisk brooms, faces set in severe lines. They swept up the shards from Dawn's smashed mug and put a fresh one in its place, muttering about carelessness as they sopped up the spill.

  For the rest of the meal, if any of the handmaids at Bryn's table whispered “grub” or “maggot,” the others would laugh, half choking on their food. Even ominous glares from the Feathers didn't stop them.

  Bolivar's frustration was growing. He'd roamed the streets of Bewel, questioning the inhabitants, trying to discover news of Selid. He and Finian and Garth had arrived in the late afternoon the previous day, the day of the Solstice Festival. Too many of the shops had closed in preparation for the festivities; far too many of Bewel's townspeople had begun their celebrations early by drinking strong wine. Bolivar wished he still wore the Temple insignia that made common people treat him with respect. The fools he talked to here were barely courteous. A young scribe? No indeed, they knew nothing of a young woman who might have come among them sometime late last spring.

  Finian and Garth fared no better. Once Solz's celebration began in earnest, the hubbub in the streets was so tumultuous as to give all three of them splitting headaches. They had resorted to watching the comings and goings of the people, hoping to catch a glimpse of Selid by chance. Finian had been quite morose over missing the Gilgamell Troupe; Bolivar had to reprimand the young soldier sharply to keep him from accepting tankards of wine from passersby.

  Now it was the afternoon of the following day. The town had been nearly deserted for most of the morning, the shops sealed tightly.

  Dissatisfied and hungry, Bolivar finally found a baker's shop opening its doors. He asked for a dozen hot rolls. The baker's wife was exceedingly friendly, so he chanced repeating his question about the scribe. The woman answered delightedly, “Oh, you must be looking for Zera, who's married Lance the carpenter. She does a bit of scribing.”

  Her directions were only slightly confused. Bolivar found the carpenter's gate with no more than a few wrong turns. He lifted the latch, noting that it was well oiled. Stepping into the yard, he approached a snug cottage. Selid's carpenter, whoever he might be, was a fine craftsman.

  He rapped at the door but received no answer. He broke the lock with a swift blow from his knife. Entering the house with his men at his back, he made a quick inspection.

  “Gone,” he announced. He kicked over a chair.

  “Shall we wait, quiet-like, until they come back?” asked Finian.

  Bolivar shook his head. The hearth was swept clean. “We come too late,” he said.

  Renchald was not pleased with Bolivar's report. He dismissed the soldier and sat alone in his sanctum, considering.

  Oh, how bitterly he missed being able to see the future.

  As Master Priest, he was heir to exceptional training, skill, and power: training in the most closely held secrets of the ancients; skill to hold effective ceremonies; power to perceive what was invisible to others.

  None of it could keep him young.

  His prophetic ability was failing at a disturbing pace. He was unable to foretell the simplest events anymore.

  He had been told it would be so: the gift of prophecy, like Solz's journey through the day, waned with age, eventually sinking. Temple teachings declared that, as Master Priest, he would value wisdom more than the heady show of prophecy. But the wisdom Renchald possessed did not console him for what he had lost.

  He knew he ought to be more grateful for the gyrfalcon's secret gift, a gift that would give him ascendancy for as long as he lived. But to use that gift upon others, they had to be in his presence.

  Selid was far away, he knew not where.

  Renchald sighed. Blind to the future though he was, he would not give up the search for his former pupil.

  Clea had seen through Selid's etheric cloak, but not clearly; only the vaguest outlines of her life. It would require more than that to find the renegade prophetess again.

  Renchald turned to face the gyrfalcon tapestry on the wall. “The best hope left to me,” he said, speaking aloud to the spirit of his choosing bird, “is to train Clea to link with a male prophet for greater clarity of vision.”

  He stared into the fire burning on his hearth, reviewing in his mind the young male prophets. Whom should he choose to pair with Lord Errington's daughter? It would need to be someone with extraordinary abilities.

  * * *

  A few days later, after classes had resumed, Kiran headed back toward the stables from a trip to the storage shed where the oats were kept. A chilly wind flew in his face. He smiled as Jack bounded through the cold to meet him. Setting down the heavy sack, he rubbed Jack behind the ears.

  Ahead, he saw Bryn sitting on the pasture fence, hand outstretched to Obsidian, who bent his magnificent head for her to stroke his nose.

  “Do you see that, Jack?” Kiran said softly. A bubble of stillness surrounded Bryn and the horse; the stallion's mane lay flat against his neck, and Bryn's hair didn't stir either. Dead grasses bent in the wind all along the rest of the pasture but stood quiet at the fence where she sat.

  Kiran stood and stared for several minutes. He kept waiting for the breeze, which blew so strongly everywhere else, to touch Bryn.

  It didn't.

  He thought back to their talk by the pond after the solstice. What was it she'd said about the wind? I don't hear its whispers anymore … It's all stillness now.

  All stillness.

  Watching her, Kiran wondered if the curse on Bryn might also be making her somewhat invisible. Why else would the change in such a gifted prophetess fail to draw everyone's notice?

  He approached the pasture fence as she climbed down. He wondered what it must be like to live as an echo of what she had once been; to move through her days, seeing wind in the trees and on the path but never feeling the smallest breeze.

  “The wind doesn't touch you,” he said.

  She looked suddenly so bereft that he didn't fight the urge to put his arms around her. For a moment Bryn sighed against him, but then she pulled away.

  Kiran captured one of her slender hands in both of his. “There must be some way to lift the curse,” he said.

  “Perhaps so.” She sounded hopeless, her golden-brown eyes sad.

  I'll find a way, Kiran vowed to himself, but he didn't speak aloud. And thinking of Clea, with her pretty airs and graces, her sneers and sideways smiles, he felt rage so hot it seemed the grass beneath his feet should rightf
ully catch fire.

  Summoned to the Master Priest's sanctum late that afternoon, Kiran gazed through the window at the sunset flaming the skyline outside. Failing red light clung to the heavy drapes, dulling the cords that bound them; it spread onto the Master Priest's robes, washing the gold embroidery at his collar and cuffs with darkness.

  This time Kiran was invited to sit.

  “It's time you took your rightful place in the Temple,” said the Master Priest.

  “Rightful place?”

  “ You're a black swan prophet, Kiran. I would like to begin training you in the techniques of paired prophecy.”

  Kiran tensed. Paired prophecy was such a secret technique, he had heard only rumors of it.

  The growing shadows seemed to transform Renchald's lean face into that of a gyrfalcon. “ You're a gifted prophet, Kiran, though you hide it well. The Temple needs you. Your prophetic powers will begin to decline in less than ten years. By pairing with another whose powers are also at their height, you can bathe in the brilliance of the Oracle's light, walk at will through the future. You can travel effortlessly wherever the Oracle sees fit to take you. Your mind will fill with insight and become a thousand times more powerful.”

  Fill with insight. Kiran thought of Bryn. Might Renchald be able to teach him something that could help her? “What is paired prophecy?” he asked cautiously.

  “A method for linking with the mind of a prophetess.”

  “How would I learn it?”

  “Report to me for evening study. A class of one.”

  Could Kiran bear Renchald's company—alone? Could he endure learning from the Master Priest, while watched by a vulture statue and a tapestry of Keldes?

  “Because the pairing techniques are so secret,” Renchald continued, “ you will be required to give your solemn word not to reveal what you learn and not to discuss that we are meeting.” He laced his fingers together, his two hands like one large fist. “If you begin, you must agree to complete all the lessons I set for you.”