The Light of the Oracle

Kiran looked at his hands holding a knife and a slice of flattened bread, well buttered.

  Brock's merry eyes peered at him. “The post brought me a letter,” he said, lowering his voice. “From Dawn.”

  Kiran snapped awake. Glancing around, he was relieved that he and Brock were alone at a table. Nevertheless, he spoke in code. “Did she explain those equations you were wondering about?”

  Brock drew out a scroll. He unrolled it; it was covered with numbers and mathematical symbols. He winked. “Dawn's quite happy with the simple one-plusone equation.”

  Dawn's marriage is going well, Kiran thought.

  “I'll need to study it further, but it appears she's found the answer to the S problem,” Brock said.

  Dawn has found Selid? Kiran raised his eyebrows.

  The gong rang. Brock whisked the scroll into a pocket of his robe.

  “Meet out by the pond, after lunch?” Kiran asked quietly. Students would have an hour or two then.

  Brock nodded.

  Bumping into Bryn in the corridor, Kiran hoped she heard him whisper that he'd be at the pond; hoped that if she did hear, she'd be willing to meet him.

  Later, standing by the flat rock near the water, where he and his friends had shared picnics and talked and laughed, Kiran was overpowered with eerie certainty: This is the last time.

  He turned to Brock. “I've tried to keep you out of danger,” he said.

  Brock's black eyes lit up. “Do you mean you could have offered me more danger before now?”

  “I'm serious.” Kiran whistled for Jack. When the dog arrived, Kiran silently asked him to see if other people were around. Jack trotted off. He soon returned with Bryn. Kiran was very much struck by how unusually healthy and bright she looked, her skin rosy, her eyes animated and clear.

  She and Brock perched on the flat rock and looked at Kiran questioningly.

  Speaking in a low voice, he told them about training with the Master Priest, about Clea and their pairing and how he couldn't bring himself to do it anymore.

  Neither of his friends interrupted, though they looked grave as they listened to him pour out the story of his secret life. Kiran hoped it was understood, now, that he did not “defer” to Clea and never had. “And now the Master Priest wants to pair me with you, Bryn,” he finished; “to use us both to hunt for Selid—and for anything else he may wish to know. I can't be part of that, either.”

  “How will you tell Renchald?” she asked. “What if he sends you to the desert?”

  “I won't tell him. I've decided to leave the Temple.”

  “Leave?” The word was a whispered cry on her lips.

  “I must. The Master Priest plans to command my visions endlessly. If he learns I refuse to pair, he'll give it forth that I've broken my word to him. He'll consecrate me to Keldes or have me cursed into compliance.”

  Brock leaned forward. “After what you've said, I won't deny you should get yourself gone. But how?”

  “Jack and I will leave just after sundown. I'm often out at that hour. The guards know it. We'll go through the woods to the far wall; there's a place where the roots have weakened the stone. You know where it is, Bryn.” He raised his eyebrows to her, and she nodded. “Jack can dig a way out.”

  “Tonight?” Bryn said hoarsely.

  “Tonight. And Bryn, we have a letter from Dawn.”

  He looked at Brock. “Have you deciphered what it says?”

  Brock pulled the parchment covered with numbers from one pocket and an abacus from the other. “One moment.” He spun the beads of the abacus as his eyes darted over the equations Dawn had written.

  “Selid is living on the outskirts of the city of Tunise, near the juncture where the north-south highway meets the east-west road,” he said after a few minutes. “She's married a carpenter.” He paused, tapping the page of numbers. “The troupe was performing, and Selid went to hear the music. Dawn happened to spot her.”

  Kiran pondered the news. “Even if I hadn't decided to go already, I'd want to leave now, to warn Selid. Someone needs to tell her Renchald is pursuing her.”

  Brock rattled his abacus. “If you plan to go to Tunise, you'll need a horse to get through the Lyden Desert.”

  Kiran shrugged. “Least of my worries. I am swan-chosen.” He managed a smile. “I'll speak to the first likely horse I meet outside the wall.” He fastened his gaze on Bryn. Now for it. “Bryn, I hope you'll go with me. If you stay here the Master Priest will surely train another prophet to pair with you and force visions from you.”

  Color rushed into her cheeks. “Go with you?”

  “ You could slip away by taking a guest cloak and using the door near the gardens, then meet Jack and me at the weak spot in the wall.”

  Bryn bit her lip. Jack went to her side and nudged her.

  “Jack wants you to come with us,” Kiran told her. “Will you?”

  They were all quiet for a few moments.

  “Well, my lady,” Brock asked her, “must I say goodbye to you, too?”

  Bryn stood up. Kiran couldn't read her expression. Joy? Sadness? “ Yes,” she answered. “ Yes, say goodbye, Brock.”

  “ You'll come with me?” Kiran said eagerly.

  She nodded, giving him a look as she used to do, a look of trust and unbreakable friendship. “I'll meet you by the wall, after sundown.” She bent to pet Jack, who was grinning broadly, showing all his teeth.

  “We'll be waiting,” Kiran said.

  Within his curtained compartment in the acolytes' hall, Kiran threw off his student robe and exchanged it for shirt and pants. This time he would never put the robe back on. He checked his knife and wished he had thought to smuggle some food.

  A tingle made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He whirled round, feeling that someone else was there.

  “Brock?”

  No answer, and Kiran suddenly knew who it was that had entered his curtain. Not a bodily presence, but a tendril of awareness from his former pairing partner, Clea. Angry darkness rose in his mind as he reinforced his inner barriers. How long had she been prowling the abanya, waiting for him to let down his guard? What if she knew his mind and betrayed his plans to the Master Priest? Renchald had once promised him that Clea would be unable to know his thoughts. But if that were so, why had Kiran sensed her presence?

  He couldn't risk waiting. He must leave at once.

  Taking his cloak from its hook, he headed for the nearest outer door. The sense of Clea persisted. He looked right and left, behind him and in front, but didn't see her. How glad he would be to get away from her! Once I leave, I'll never return.

  Never return, never return, he repeated to himself with each step. His boots trod softly in the corridor; shadows flickered across the polished granite floor ahead where guards were stationed at the door.

  Kiran's eyes narrowed. Normally one or two guards protected this door, not five gathered in a knot, watching him approach. His steps slowed. Again he looked behind him, but no one was there. Turn around, his mind shouted, but it was too late.

  All five guards closed in on him, grabbing his arms. “We're ordered to take you to the Master Priest,” one of them said. It was Finian, whom Kiran considered a friend.

  Kiran threw himself backward with such force that the surprised soldiers lost their grip. Lurching, he turned and bolted back the way he'd come. He raced toward a branching corridor. Turning the corner, he ran pell-mell into another group of guards, who surrounded him.

  He didn't wait for them to seize him. He kicked the nearest man's knee and swung his fist at another's head. His boots cracked against bone and his fists met flesh. The groans and curses he heard only urged him to fight more furiously.

  For long minutes he fought them off, but then several of them dived for his legs, yanking his feet out from under him. He fell heavily, rolled to the side only to meet the flat of a sword against his head; it half stunned him. His arms were grabbed, his wrists twisted. A booted toe kicked his ribs.

  Still
he struggled blindly.

  After the evening meal, Bryn looked fondly around the curtained nook that had been her home for almost two years. How she wanted to say farewell to her friends, but that would be too risky. She murmured a quick prayer for Alyce, Jacinta, and Willow, wishing them happiness; her whispered voice caught in her throat.

  Was she really about to leave the Temple and her dream of becoming a priestess of the Oracle? Had Kiran really asked her to go away with him?

  Yes, and she was going.

  But what did his desire to take her with him truly mean? It might simply be that he wouldn't leave a friend defenseless in the clutches of the Master Priest. It might be that he wanted a companion to travel with, though Bryn doubted that. Jack would be enough company for Kiran.

  Does he care for me?

  She opened her wardrobe. Inside hung her spare student robe and the gown she had worn for the Solstice Festival; she brushed its lustrous cloth with her fingertips and then flung off her worn robe. She slipped on the gown, and put her spare robe over it. The robe bunched a little at the shoulders but she hoped it wouldn't be noticeable.

  Starting down the corridor, she saw no one. Delighted, she continued on, her steps light. Perhaps the absence of guards foretold that she and Kiran would escape quietly.

  As she reached the turn in the corridor that would take her to the guest wing, a shining plume of thistle-down appeared in front of her.

  Bryn's first feeling was joy—joy that beat in her ears like the drums of the Gilgamell Troupe. Oh, glorious happiness!

  But then the thistledown moved, floating ahead of her, and she realized it was leading her away from the guest wing.

  She hesitated. Every nerve quivered to join Kiran. He wanted her to go with him. He'd be waiting for her, wondering what was keeping her if she didn't arrive.

  But hadn't she vowed to herself over and over that if she ever saw the thistledown again, she would follow it? No matter where it led. Hadn't she said that nothing was more important to her, or ever would be?

  Now it was here, guiding her in a direction she didn't want to go. Bryn looked down the hall that would lead to the guest wing and Kiran. No guards to be seen. How easy it would be to slip out of the door to the gardens. If she waited, the chance to leave with Kiran might vanish forever.

  Light streamed from the thistledown as it bobbed along the hallway far ahead. If she ran, she could catch up with it. “I'm sorry, Kiran,” Bryn whispered, throat aching. “I can't ignore it again.” She tore after the this-tledown as it disappeared round a corner.

  It sped along much faster than it had the night she'd first followed it through the Temple. Bryn had to run to keep up and lost her sense of direction as it flew through unfamiliar passageways. And as she dashed through the halls, a breeze touched the back of her neck.

  Kiran didn't recognize the room he found himself in. There were no windows to give a sense of the time of day, and he didn't know how long he'd been unconscious. Candlelight from two chandeliers showed three chairs at one end of the room. The Master Priest sat in the middle chair; on either side of him were Ilona and Clea.

  Clea's blue robe had been replaced with a black one traced with silver embroidery. Signs of the god Keldes wound about the sleeves, and her feather case hung free in front. The Master Priest and First Priestess also wore black, but their robes were threaded with gold.

  Kiran's ankles were bound, as were his wrists behind his back. His ribs hurt with every breath; his face felt bruised and swollen. Pain throbbed in his head. Around him guards stood rigid.

  “Awake, Kiran?” Renchald asked.

  Kiran glared in silence.

  “ You have betrayed the gods,” the Master Priest went on.

  “ You speak for the gods, Renchald?”

  “ You have plotted to withhold visions and to deprive the Temple of your skills in paired prophecy. Do you wish to atone?”

  “If, by atone, you mean do as you say, I won't,” Kiran answered.

  Renchald drew himself up. “As you refuse to atone, the First Priestess and I have sanctioned a compliance curse upon you.”

  “Compliance curse?” Kiran looked at Ilona. “ You would do this?” he asked her, and thought he saw a glimmer of emotion on her face.

  “Do not trifle with the gods!” Renchald thundered so loudly that the wall sent back an echo. The gods … the gods … the gods.

  Kiran thought of Bryn waiting for him. Or would she, too, be caught as she tried to leave? “ You don't serve the gods,” Kiran answered hoarsely.

  “Silence him,” said the Master Priest, nodding to the soldiers.

  Renchald prepared to breach Kiran's inner barriers. It was what the rebellious acolyte feared most, he knew. Doing so would weaken Kiran and make him more vulnerable to being cursed. He deserves no less for turning against the Temple.

  Kiran kneeled in obvious pain, the gag that bound his jaws cutting into bruised skin. Luckily, he'd depleted his reserves by fighting—but he might still be a formidable foe in a battle for the inner worlds where Renchald planned to meet him. The Master Priest found it hard to believe how much damage an unarmed, untrained student had been able to inflict on the skilled warriors of the Temple guard.

  I must be quick, giving Kiran no time to respond.

  Summoning his inner power, the Master Priest struck with all the might of his etheric weapons, smashing Kiran's barriers.

  His dream body stood within Kiran's landscape, and for a few moments he was transfixed by its majesty—a place where tall mountains met sweeping plains; where animals roamed beside singing cataracts of water; where brightness permeated the air.

  Then Kiran's agonized spirit stood before him crying out, You have betrayed me.

  Renchald didn't answer. He set a wedge in the broken barrier to hold it open, concealed the wedge with a bank of fog. As he did so, he realized that the violence of his attack had destroyed more of the barrier than he'd intended, endangering Kiran's health. Well, it couldn't be helped now. He would mend the barrier later, after the curse was in place.

  He sent his dream body back to the Temple room. He nodded to Clea.

  “Cast the curse.”

  She opened the case that held her feather.

  Twenty

  Kiran felt the last of his strength draining away. Soon he would be unable even to kneel upright, would fall to the floor like a beaten child. He felt more naked than if he had been stripped. Eyes closed, he groped desperately within his landscape, seeking the damage he felt but could not find.

  He heard a crash. His eyes flew open. Twisting his head, he was amazed to see Bryn in the doorway, her braids coming loose, her face damp with sweat. She gasped for air as if she'd been running hard.

  The Master Priest rose to his feet while Clea and Ilona sat frozen in place. Renchald waved a hand. “Guards!”

  Several soldiers lunged toward Bryn. She glared at them, and her robe began flapping like a flag in a storm. A sudden wind went shrieking through the room, buffeting the guards so ferociously that they put their hands in front of their faces and stepped back.

  The wind has returned to Bryn. Through his pain, Kiran felt a pulse of triumphant joy. He watched a gust pull a guard's dagger from its sheath. The dagger shot through the air, its haft landing in Bryn's hand. She darted forward. Kiran felt the blade slip beneath his gag, releasing his jaw. She freed his hands next, while the wind continued beating against the guards, who took more unwilling steps backward until they stood pinned to the walls. Tapestries above their heads snapped free of their moorings to flutter madly about the room.

  Bryn cut the bonds around Kiran's ankles. She pulled at him frantically, helped him to his feet. They stood together in a small space of calm as wind howled through the rest of the room. Gusts whipped around Clea, snatching the vulture feather from her hand, overturning her chair and those of the Master Priest and First Priestess, spilling the occupants.

  Clea screeched a vulture's cry as she tried to reach her feather,
but it began to spin, wheeling across the room to the hearth, where it plunged into the fire. The acrid smell as it burned was laced with the odor of carrion.

  Ilona lay quietly, not fighting. The Master Priest thrashed on the floor, veins in his forehead standing out as he exerted himself to hold up the keltice ring. The wind wouldn't let him.

  Kiran staggered with Bryn into the hallway. He forced himself to run, following the wind as it screamed through the corridors, where students and guards alike fell back, flattened against the walls.

  The gale burst open the outer door, flinging aside two men who guarded it. Kiran stumbled as he went through. He could see the stable, its weather vane spinning like a top.

  Bryn urged him forward. “Obsidian,” she cried. “We need to get to Obsidian.”

  They ran until Kiran had to stop for breath. He clutched his chest. Looking behind, he saw guards pouring from the Temple. Some put arrows to their bows, but as the arrows left the bowstrings, they were caught by the wind and tossed into the sky. The soldiers looked like creatures of nightmare as they struggled against the gale, faces contorted, shoulders hunched, fists pummeling the air.

  Obsidian, Kiran called. Come to me, Obsidian.

  A tremendous crash sounded. The stable door burst open. Obsidian galloped toward them, a flash of black, swift as the wind that licked at his heels, his mighty flanks pumping, hooves pounding the earth.

  The horse slowed when he reached them but didn't stop. Kiran flung himself onto Obsidian's back and Bryn scrambled up in front of him. They bent their heads to the stallion's neck. Out through the front gates, Kiran urged him.

  Obsidian charged past the useless band of guards. The men wrestled with their weapons, trying to draw daggers or force swords from their scabbards while the gale battered them, whistling round their ears.

  Jack. Kiran couldn't bear the thought of leaving his dog. Without Kiran, what would happen to him? Would the Master Priest order him killed to avenge the Temple's dignity? Jack, my friend, come now, we are going away.

  Obsidian rushed between the Temple and the ancient trees that stood beside it, hooves drumming the wide way toward the iron gates. Guards stationed at the entrance ranged themselves in a line across the gates. As the stallion galloped toward them, they drew their bows.