The Light of the Oracle

  Kiran's gaze swept the landscape, looking for what didn't truly belong. Something was out of place— something that made him terribly uneasy—but what? He scanned the territory again. Mountains. Waterfalls. River. Plains. Dam. Pools.

  Kiran approached one of the pools. He squatted beside it. A film of slime was coating the water. The slime thickened noticeably even as he watched. He looked at adjacent pools, and saw scum gathering over them also.

  Of course. The curse had taken the form of a dam. Kiran himself would never have stopped the free flow of water within his landscape.

  He rushed along the banks to the dam. Massive blocks walled off the river's current. What could he possibly do to remove such a structure? Who could help him?

  The answer floated on the air. Swan.

  Kiran remembered that Clea's curse had taken the wind from Bryn, sealed her in stillness that shut out her gift. Maybe he would be unable to touch the spirit of the swan. Then again, Clea had sought to deprive Bryn of prophecy, whereas Kiran's curse was for the purpose of making him obedient to the Master Priest's desire for more prophecies. He would be of no value to the Temple unless he continued to be a black swan prophet.

  He must call the swan. Nothing else could help him now.

  Kiran called. He stood beside the dam within his landscape, waiting, calling with all his heart. He kept his eyes fixed on the blank sky, pleading, If I have done any good thing in my life, please help me now.

  After a timeless interval that seemed to last for hours, a great bird came into view, soaring out of the plains. Black wings glistened against the golden sky as it flew closer, its beak ruby red. Kiran watched as it came nearer and nearer.

  It perched on a branch directly across from him. It shook its feathers and looked at him with eyes deeper than all the waters of the world.

  Thank you for heeding my call.

  Light rolled off the swan's wings toward him, light so thick he could gather it in his hands like silken rope.

  And Kiran knew what to do. He arranged the coils of light into a web, a net big enough to throw over the dam.

  He cast it. Alive with intelligence, the net slid under the blocks of Clea's curse, shining ever more brightly as it wrapped round the whole structure.

  When the entire dam lay within the net, Kiran and the swan drew the edges of the net together, the swan using its beak, and Kiran his hands.

  Now.

  They tugged with their combined strength. The dam broke into pieces held by the net. The pent-up water burst free, flowing into the riverbed, overrunning the pools, catching them up in its pure current.

  Energy and strength streamed through Kiran. He gripped the net. What now? he asked the swan.

  The bird led the way out of Kiran's landscape. Dragging the net, Kiran followed the swan past his inner barriers. He understood that he must not leave the curse lying in the abanya. He decided to try bringing it with him into the outer world.

  Thank you, he told the swan. Thank you.

  Black feathers glinted as the bird soared out of sight.

  Kiran sent his dream body back to the carriage that traveled toward the Temple of the Oracle. And as he passed out of the abanya, the net he carried and the stones within it vanished.

  Twenty-three

  Renchald regretted the need to push for a quick return to the Temple to meet Lord Errington. It would have been more suitable to travel at a measured pace. However, he took solace in knowing that he and Bolivar had done what they set out to do. And Clea had subdued Kiran before heading on to Zornowel with the First Priestess.

  The Master Priest remained wakeful during the night journey through the Lyden, but he was able to sleep in his carriage for much of the next day. He woke in late afternoon. The terrain outside told him the Temple would appear within an hour. He took advantage of the solitude to reflect on the events of the past two years.

  The actions of only a few insubordinate students had made his job excessively difficult. Now, calm would be restored—with Selid in the hereafter, Kiran under a compliance curse, and Bryn soon to be barred from the wind forever.

  Renchald sighed. Sad that the cardinal-chosen handmaid had followed her own misguided views instead of serving the Temple. But the gods ordained it so. As for her husband, it was a shame that he'd become mixed up with her. Renchald did not approve of extraneous killing. However, one man's life was unimportant compared to preserving the reputation of the Oracle. Had the carpenter been left alive, he could easily have caused unrest. The Temple could not afford to be misperceived.

  At the Temple, the Master Priest disembarked from his carriage. He noticed, with appreciation, the colors of sunset. Solz's daily gift of beauty was a reminder of the grandeur of all the gods.

  He dismissed Bolivar for some much-needed rest. The captain of the Temple guard had stayed awake and vigilant during the long ride.

  Alamar came scurrying to the carriage house to welcome the Master Priest. “Lord Errington arrived in your absence, sir,”

  “Ah.” Renchald caught sight of Obsidian being led toward the pasture by six tired soldiers, each of whom held a tether.

  “He was perturbed to find his daughter absent, Your Honor,” Alamar said.

  “Send him to me at once.” The Master Priest would rather have taken refreshment but thought it best to mollify Lord Errington first.

  Renchald saw Kiran crawl from the carriage that had held him. The tall acolyte had shed his arrogant stance and was being courteous with his guard, a young warrior named Finian. Renchald caught Finian's eye and beckoned. As Kiran docilely allowed the guard to take his elbow, the Master Priest chided himself for enjoying the sight of Kiran so subdued. His conscience smote him a little when he remembered how badly Kiran's barriers had been damaged. It was a wonder the young man could walk upright. Now that a compliance curse was in place, Renchald promised himself he would mend the barriers soon. Yes, that very evening, as soon as he had pacified Lord Errington.

  “Thank you, Finian,” Renchald said to the guard. “Go, and take your rest.”

  Finian saluted and stalked away just as Brock Smith, the owl-chosen acolyte, appeared from around the corner of the carriage house. Renchald frowned, but the young man bowed very properly: humble acolyte to Master Priest.

  Brock's presence reminded him of the questions he meant to ask Kiran about his friends. Had Brock known he contemplated leaving the Temple? And how had Bryn and Kiran known of Selid's whereabouts?

  “My business with Lord Errington will soon be concluded, Kiran,” Renchald said. “Await me on the bench near the west entrance. I have questions for you.” Kiran bowed politely, and began to move away with Brock. “And Kiran”—the acolytes turned back— “ you are forbidden to hold silent speech with animals. Nor will you speak of anything that occurred while you were away, except to me.”

  Again, Kiran bowed respectfully. He walked off, Brock murmuring to him something about the mathematics of time.

  Alamar approached with Lord Errington. The lord bowed deeply; Renchald returned the bow, welcoming him.

  “ You've sent my daughter on a journey, Your Honor?” Errington asked. Alamar hurriedly excused himself.

  “Clea is well protected, traveling with a squadron of Temple guards to visit the queen,” Renchald answered, “on a mission of importance. But more of this later.” He looked meaningfully at Errington. “Would you care to have another look at the magnificent horse you'll be acquiring?”

  Errington bowed. Renchald led the way. He pointed out Obsidian, who paced at the far end of the field, his outline lit by orange rays of sunset. The Master Priest gathered his thoughts. He had carefully considered what ought to be said to Lord Errington. The pasture would afford them privacy to speak.

  “I'll allow no one to ride him but me,” Errington said, looking at the horse.

  “ You've sold Obsidian?” Renchald was startled to see Kiran and Brock appear beside him as if out of nowhere.

  “This is no concern of yours, Kiran
.”

  “Obsidian cannot go to this”—Kiran gestured at Errington—“this bloated Lord of Greed.” Fists clenched, he took a step forward.

  Errington's face purpled. “How dare you?” He faced Kiran, doubling his own fists.

  Renchald stepped between them. “Stand down, Kiran, I command you.”

  Kiran gave a bitter laugh. “Stand down yourself, Renchald. You have ruled this Temple too long.” And Kiran shoved him in the chest, making him stumble backward.

  The Master Priest gaped in disbelief. How could Kiran be defiant with him? “Brock,” he said, “fetch Bolivar.”

  Brock folded his arms and made no move to obey. Errington rushed at the smaller young man. Brock sidestepped. Kiran tripped Errington by hooking his shin with a foot. Errington landed sprawling, Kiran's boot on the back of his neck.

  “Don't move,” Kiran said. Errington went limp.

  Renchald forced himself to think. Kiran has overcome the curse somehow. He whirled around, waving to a guard posted at the west entrance. Was the man addled? Did he suppose Kiran was having a friendly wrestling match—or was he simply blinded by the setting sun? Renchald pointed to Errington's prone figure. “Find Bolivar!” he roared. Shading his eyes with his hand, the guard nodded. More soldiers could not be far, but Kiran had timed his rebellion well. Was it by chance?

  Fear clawed at Renchald as he realized that hardly twice in ten years had he been in a more unprotected position. Nearly all members of the Temple would be at the evening meal. “Be reasonable, Kiran,” he said, lifting the keltice ring. “ You can't fight the Temple guard alone.”

  But Kiran wasn't looking at him or the ring. “I left reason behind on Selid's hearth,” he answered. “And I don't intend to fight alone.” He closed his eyes.

  Renchald threw a tendril of awareness toward Kiran. His fear increased when he found that the unpredictable rebel's barriers were intact. Who had mended them—and how?

  There wasn't an instant to spare. Renchald drew on his inner power to smash the barriers again.

  They held fast.

  Renchald heard a trumpeting cry. A huge bird beat through the sky, black feathers gleaming, red beak shining.

  But I never taught Kiran how to summon his choosing bird.

  Renchald called to his gyrfalcon. A bird of prey could defeat any swan, no matter what size it might be.

  The gyrfalcon appeared so swiftly it was only a dappled blur against the red sky as it dived for the black swan, razor-sharp talons outstretched, screech tearing the air. The swan swooped sideways; the plummeting falcon grazed its wing. Black quills fluttered to the ground, but the swan soared free and doubled back, speeding toward Renchald.

  The gyrfalcon lifted high in the sky. Attack! Renchald thought, face raised to his choosing bird.

  The two birds collided in midair. Both Renchald and Kiran fell to the ground. Renchald rolled to a crouch and then stood up. Kiran lay still. Brock kneeled beside him, while Lord Errington got ponderously to his feet, swearing angrily.

  Bolivar and a dozen guards were coming at a run. Renchald motioned to them to hurry. Just beyond, his gyrfalcon hunched on the ground, blinking. The black swan sat unmoving.

  “ You see, Kiran, how fruitless it is to struggle? The gods watch over the Temple.”

  Kiran's eyes flew open, and Renchald, flashing the keltice ring, was ready. Kiran's gaze caught the ring.

  Kiran fell under the force of the gyrfalcon's gift.

  His mother, long dead, appeared before him, vibrantly alive. She mounted her horse. The saddle was poorly fastened; it would slip, and her foot would catch in the stirrup. She would be dragged to her death.

  ‘No!” Kiran cried. “Don't ride today!”

  She didn't hear him, didn't seem to see him. Someone beside him laughed tauntingly. Kiran turned and saw Raynor Errington as a boy, lifting his riding crop over a frightened horse.

  “Stop!” Kiran yelled, and then felt himself hurled beneath the stamping hooves. He put up both hands imploringly. “No,” he cried.

  The elder Lord Errington, Raynor's father, took his son's place. He aimed a kick at Kiran's defenseless ribs. Kiran writhed, groaning, and a squadron of guards set upon him, the guards who had waylaid him in the Temple corridor. “We're ordered to take you to the Master Priest.”

  But the Master Priest was there already, nodding to Bolivar, ordering him to cut Selid's throat.

  “No!” Kiran cried out. He saw his mother riding, the saddle slipping, her foot trapped in the stirrup; saw Selid's blood pouring onto her hearthstone.

  “Kiran,” someone was yelling, “it isn't real!”

  Who was it?

  Lord Errington kicked again, his heavy boot hard as a stallion's hoof. Raynor screamed with laughter. A horse's terrified neigh merged with Kiran's mother's shrieks.

  “The gyrfalcon's gift, Kiran!” someone called, the voice barely audible above the noise of panic and death. “It's the ring.”

  Who was calling? What ring?

  “Help her!” Kiran shouted to his father, Eston, who appeared just out of reach. Eston's eyes overflowed with grief as he lifted a bottle of whisky to his lips.

  The disembodied voice came again, lanced with pain. “Renchald is making you bring forth the past, Kiran; the worst moments of your life all at once.”

  Brock's voice.

  Renchald watched Kiran grapple helplessly with his own phantoms. Errington kicked Brock repeatedly, but Brock kept yelling.

  Renchald froze. How did Brock know the Master Priest's most inviolable secret? No one living, except him, knew what he could do with the gyrfalcon's gift and the keltice ring.

  “The ring, Kiran! What you see isn't real.” Brock grunted as Lord Errington bludgeoned his shoulder. “What happened before … not happening now!”

  And, unbelievably, Kiran seemed to hear. He stopped twisting and moaning. He shut his eyes, rolling away from Errington's boots.

  Keldes, Lord of Death, you must claim Kiran! Renchald thought.

  The Master Priest heard a sudden thunder of hooves. He turned to see more than a dozen horses, Obsidian at their head, jump the pasture fence.

  Kiran. He's speaking to the horses.

  Renchald called to the god of his choosing bird. Keldes, I have served you well. Help me now.

  The horses galloped straight at the guards, who were closing in. The men yelled commands to stop, but the horses ignored them. Obsidian struck a man down with his hooves. A white mare plowed into another guard. Two matched brown horses knocked Bolivar headlong, pinning him to the ground with their forelegs. Confounded, the rest of the guards began to scatter.

  Renchald threw himself at Kiran. Brock sprang up to block him, then lost his balance and fell. Kiran scrambled to his feet. Renchald lunged again, but Kiran jumped away.

  The swan's wild cry resounded. The falcon's screech echoed eerily. The birds had taken to the air once more.

  Something very hard hit Renchald's shoulder. He spun halfway round and then fell. Rolling painfully onto his back, he looked up. For an eternal moment everything was supremely clear: Kiran looking down at him, Obsidian rearing up, his striking hooves higher than Kiran's head. And in front of the great black horse, the Master Priest saw a vision of Selid: Ellerth will bury you, Renchald. I have seen it.

  The hooves came down. The gyrfalcon tumbled earthward, shrieking as it fell.

  Breathing hard, Kiran stood over Renchald. The Master Priest's chest was crushed, his blood seeping into the earth. The ground was darkening rapidly, the sun's last rim sinking below the horizon. Obsidian paced beside the body, shaking his black mane and twitching his tail.

  “Keldes forbid what my eyes tell me.” It was Lord Errington. “What have you done?”

  Kiran was having trouble taking in the magnitude of what had just happened. He knew he'd battled the Master Priest and won. But death? It seemed unthinkable. He was startled by how quickly Brock leaped at Errington, crying, “Get back!”

  Errington scowled
. “Don't presume—”

  “Or perhaps you'd care to argue?” Brock waved a hand at Obsidian.

  Errington backed up a few steps, then turned and hurried away, past Bolivar, who still lay pinned beneath the forefeet of two horses.

  Brock bent to Renchald's body and lifted the dead hand. He took the keltice ring. “For safekeeping from the likes of Errington,” he said, slipping it inside his robe.

  Other members of the Temple were beginning to pour from the west entrance, like shadows running through the gathering dusk. Seeing them forced Kiran to think, to act. “Brock,” he said, “we've got to leave now, before every priest and priestess here gathers their gifts against us.” He pointed to the white mare who had charged the guard. “She's willing to have you as a rider.”

  Brock pulled himself onto the mare.

  Ribs aching, Kiran climbed on Obsidian. He sent out a call to all the animals in the grounds.

  Honking and hissing ensued, as a flock of geese soared over the stables from the pond and flew at the people who streamed from the Temple. Maddened horses sped down the causeway toward the gates. A great lowing and bleating issued from cattle and sheep breaking down fences.

  Obsidian and the white mare galloped to the gates, the black swan sailing above their heads. The guards at the entrance, fully occupied fending off animals and birds, couldn't stop them.

  Thus Kiran and Brock took their leave of the Temple of the Oracle.

  And as they turned onto the main road north, Kiran heard a bark. Jack. I knew you'd find me.

  Twenty-four

  Bryn concentrated on her steps as she entered the queen's palace with Dawn and the Gilgamell Troupe. The troubadours had provided her with an ivory satin gown, its full skirt almost overpowered by flounces. She was having trouble walking smoothly.

  Avrohom's costume was so bedecked with ostrich plumes that he created the illusion of a man moving from the realms of the gods into the world of mortals. Concealed in the jacket he wore was Selid's prophecy. He led their group with a confident stride through the domed hall that dwarfed them all. When Bryn dared look up, she caught her breath at the height of the great ceiling, a vast expanse of arching stone.