The Light of the Oracle

  “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.

  “Don't grieve,” Renchald said softly. “He probably lived with pain for many years.” He looked up at Nirene. “Take Bryn outside. I will administer the final blessing.”

  The girl's stare was blank. Her large eyes filled with tears, and she looked even more of a waif than she had before. The simpleton obviously didn't comprehend Dai's good fortune. Why, the Master Priest himself would give the final blessing! It was what every priest hoped for.

  “Come,” Nirene said briskly, snapping her fingers.

  Bryn wiped her eyes with grubby hands, leaving more dirt streaks on her face. She got to her feet, and Nirene put a firm hand on her elbow. At the doorway she paused to look back at the Master Priest bending over the dead man, but Nirene didn't let her linger.

  The sunlight outside stabbed their eyes sharply. From the back of her horse, Clea sneered down at Bryn. “Why are you crying? Is that the only way to wash your face?”

  “Hush,” Nirene said. “Her priest is dead.”

  Clea gave a disdainful sniff. “What did he die of? Shame?”

  Bryn glared. “He was more than you'll ever be,” she said.

  “Quite
a eulogy,” Clea answered. “More than me? Undoubtedly he was—more ignorant.”

  Bryn didn't answer, turning her back. Clea smiled knowingly.

  During the ride to Tunise, the Master Priest halted the procession each time they came to a crossroads; there he would pour libations of wine and lead prayers to Winjessen, the god who presided over travel as well as learning.

  After several crossroads, Bryn, drooping in her saddle, surprised Nirene by asking, “Why must Winjessen be reminded again and again to watch over our journey? Isn't he fleet of thought and quick of memory?”

  “Hush,” Nirene said, glad they were too far from the Master Priest to be heard. “Don't speak of things about which you know nothing.” How abominably backward the girl was. Well, judging by the state of his rectory, her village priest had likely forgotten everything he'd learned in the Temple as a youth.

  Clea was snickering. “She doesn't know anything. Why don't you throw her back in that sinkhole she crawled from?”

  Bryn was quiet, patting her horse.

  When they reached the city of Tunise, Bryn's head waved like a weed in the wind, her eyes wide, taking in the streets. Vendors, colorfully dressed beneath flimsy awnings of orange, yellow, and blue cloth, called out to passersby; mobs of children, circling the vendors, looked for treats they might steal; merchants haggled with their customers.

  At last, the Temple procession arrived at the inn where they would stay. After dinner, Nirene and her two charges were given a small, dank chamber with three narrow cots.

  Clea stood in the middle of the room, sputtering her rage. “This place is no better than a cottager's shed. Order a bath for me, Nirene, and a better room.”

  Nirene took a firm grip on her patience. “Tunise is not a wealthy city. The accommodations are scant, as you can well see. I cannot better them. When you arrive in the Temple, your quarters will be as small. You may as well get used to it.” She pointed to a basin in the corner. “We'll wash there.”

  Clea whirled upon Bryn. “I'm descended from King Zor. I'll not sleep anywhere near this rat, nor share a basin with the likes of her. She looks as if she's never bathed in her life.”

  “I bathe in the quarry,” Bryn flared in answer, “where the water is deep.”

  Clea lifted her nose. “And in the winter? What do you do then—wait for spring thaw?” She clenched her fists. “Get her out, Nirene.”

  “ You can't dismiss a sister handmaid, Clea. If you don't wish to sleep here, you may stand in the corridor.”

  Clea threw herself onto the cot closest to the wall, turning her face away.

  As Bryn splashed water on her skin, she imagined she was washing away her sadness over Dai's death along with the dust of the road. She wished she'd known the day before that he was close to the end of his life. She would have told him what it had meant to her to know him, to be taught by him.

  I would have said goodbye.

  What had they talked about instead? She remembered him saying that he'd pondered the riddles of life, and that his own fate was known all too well. “The only possible mystery to be found in Uste is that of a glorious girl named Bryn. Why was she born in such a sinkhole?” He'd chuckled and raised his glass to her.

  Had he really known that “they” would come for her? And what had he meant to remind her of when he said “Remember”?

  Bryn slid onto her cot, lying quite still as Nirene snuffed the candles.

  Listening to Nirene's quiet breathing, Bryn missed the sounds of her brothers tossing and turning, of her father's gentle snores. Her thoughts swirled like the thistledown she had followed earlier. It hardly seemed possible that in the morning she had been running through the fields like a heedless child. Now the old man who had opened the world to her by teaching her and lending her his books was dead. She was lying on a cot in a city she'd never seen before between two near strangers, both of whom seemed to dislike her.

  On my way to the Temple of the Oracle to meet with others of my kind, she thought wistfully.

  At that moment Clea hissed at her. “Psst.”

  Bryn turned. She couldn't see Clea through the dark. “What is it?”

  “When the Temple holds the Ceremony of Birds,” Clea whispered, “I know which bird will choose me.”

  Ceremony of Birds? Had Dai ever mentioned that? Bryn had a good memory, but all she could recall was his wheezing laughter as he told her that he was “bird-chosen.” “I couldn't be a priest without being chosen. Every priest and priestess in the land was once given a feather in the Ceremony of Birds.” He had tapped his wizened chest. “I was chosen by the common robin. Not a bird of power, I assure you.” Bryn had dismissed his talk as rambling. Most of what he said about the Temple made little sense, his words and his thoughts fuzzy with wine.

  “Do you mean you'll be bird-chosen?” she asked Clea hesitantly.

  “Are you really as stupid as you seem? Yes, bird-chosen. I'll be chosen by the vulture, the most respected bird of all. Then the curses I cast will be forged by Keldes, Lord of Death.”

  Curses? Bryn wondered if she'd heard right. “But how do you know which bird will choose you?”

  Clea laughed, a hissing trill in the darkness. “I know which bird will choose you.”

  “Which one?” Bryn blurted out before thinking.

  A small, satisfied snicker. “None of them,” Clea answered, and said nothing more.

  Three

  In the morning, Bryn couldn't forget what Clea had whispered. “Once I'm chosen by the vulture, the curses I cast will be forged by Keldes, Lord of Death.”

  Outside after breakfast, Nirene gave Bryn a wide-brimmed hat and long white gloves. “ You'll need these for getting through the Lyden Desert.”

  With good horses and water supplies, the Lyden could be crossed in a single day by following the road that had been built through its narrowest stretch. Straying from the road would lead to death, for the desert ranged a long way to the east and west.

  The travelers set out with Bolivar and two other soldiers at the forefront just behind the Master Priest. The rest followed, riding three abreast. Again, Nirene rode between Clea and Bryn at the end of the line. The road seemed deserted except for the Temple procession. Soldiers of the rear guard rode so far back that Bryn seldom glimpsed them.

  They'd been traveling awhile before Bryn asked Nirene to explain the Ceremony of Birds.

  Clea sneered. Nirene stared straight ahead as she answered: “It's the ceremony held on the Temple grounds at the summer solstice to determine whether the gods have chosen any of the handmaids or acolytes.”

  “How do the gods choose?” Bryn asked.

  “If you're chosen, a bird will fly to your feet and give you a feather. After that, you begin studying to be a priestess. If you were a boy, it would be the same, but you would become a priest.” Nirene spoke curtly. Bryn remembered that Nirene had never become a priestess. It must be that no bird had ever chosen her. What if Clea's right, and none of the birds choose me, either?

  Clea had called the vulture the most respected bird. Why would a vulture be well respected? Bryn had seen vultures—great, ugly, staring things, feeding on carcasses.

  As they rode, the rocky hills, fields, and forests gave way to a shiny, bare surface, reminding Bryn of a cake she had once burned. The precious sugar Nora had given her to glaze its top had melted into a brown crust that tasted bitter. “Where are the trees?” she said.

  Nirene adjusted her hat. “ You won't see any more trees until we've passed through the desert.”

  The sun glared hot and bright. Bryn felt glad of her hat and the full water bottle hanging on her saddle horn. Her eyes roved about curiously.

  “Nirene, what's that?” She pointed ahead. A dun-colored heap lay at the side of the road, too far away to be clearly seen yet.

  Nirene, riding on Bryn's left, maneuvered to see what the girl pointed to. She shook her head, moving back into formation. But as Renchald's horse drew even with the mysterious object, it moved?
??revealing itself to be a young woman kneeling beside the road. Her clothes were ragged; tags of her sleeves fluttered in the desert breeze as she raised her arms. “Stop!” she called, her voice gritty.

  But Renchald did not stop, did not slow his horse. Bryn caught her breath, wondering if once again she was seeing something invisible to others. No one else seemed to hear the poor creature as she began to scream hoarsely, “ You pretend not to see me? Ellerth will bury you, Renchald. I have seen it!” Bryn gasped to hear Ellerth's name spoken against the Master Priest. Ellerth, goddess of the earth and its creatures, was supposed to bring life, not death.

  Not one horse slowed; not a single head turned. This must be an apparition, visible only to Bryn. She expected it to go the way of other visions, to shimmer and vanish. But as her mare came closer to the young woman, she looked even more real. Disheveled brown hair hung about a sunburned face. Her lips had cracked and bled; the blood had dried. Maddened hazel eyes looked directly at Bryn.

  “Turn back while you can,” she cried, her strained voice rising to a screech. “ You don't know what they are. You don't belong to them.”

  Bryn pulled on the mare's reins, slowing, but beside her Nirene seized the bridle, pulling her forward. As they began to pass her by, the young woman lifted her hands. “Please. Water.”

  Bryn grabbed the leather bottle from her saddle horn and flung it, nearly unseating herself. The pleading figure caught it. Bryn looked back and saw her pull out the stopper, saw her drink.

  When her neck wouldn't twist anymore, Bryn faced forward again. Nirene thrust the mare's reins into her hands.

  “Who was that?” Bryn asked.

  Nirene didn't answer.

  Bryn knew then, with a certainty that tingled through her bones, that Nirene had seen and heard everything and was only pretending she had not; that everyone in Renchald's company, including the Master Priest himself, had purposely bypassed the desperate soul beside the road and left her to die.

  Why? Weren't these people pledged to serve the gods? Dai had said many times that the gods would look with favor upon kindness to those in need. Why then had the parched young woman been treated so callously?