The Light of the Oracle

  They had arrived in Zornowel after making very good time on the north-south highway, but a day had been lost notifying the queen of their arrival and receiving her invitation to attend her at the palace during court hours. Now, as the heralded troupe advanced, their steps rang upon polished marble. Lords and ladies stood to the sides and looked out from galleries above. “Ooh”s and “ah”s greeted the troubadours, who kissed their hands to the crowd.

  They reached the carpeted area in front of the dais holding the queen's throne. The troubadours and Dawn bent into deep bows. Trying not to trample her skirts, Bryn followed their example.

  Queen Alessandra welcomed them from a throne of gold set with emeralds in a pattern of flaring rays above her head. She sat regally upright, wearing the seven-pointed crown. Her eyes were shiny and black as onyx. Wrinkles, traced by years lived in service to her people, wove across her face.

  Beside her upon a throne of silver was Princess Zorienne, wearing an opal tiara. The bones of her skull pressed against her frail skin as if already belonging to Keldes. Blankets were piled around her.

  “The arrival of the Gilgamell Troupe is always a cause for celebration,” said the queen. “Doubly so when you arrive early. But whom have you brought with you?”

  “Meet my wife, Dawn,” Avrohom answered, gesturing adoringly to the tall figure beside him, “and her traveling companion, Bryn.”

  “Marriage, Avrohom?” the queen said. “ You have sadly disappointed ten thousand maidens who dreamed of becoming your wife. How are we to send condolences to so many?”

  A buzz of appreciative laughter circled the hall.

  Avrohom bowed. Stepping forward, he drew out Selid's prophecy. “I hope, Your Majesty,” he said, his famous voice pitched for all to hear, “to spare you and the people of Sorana a much deeper grief.” He extended the scroll. “I bring you a prophecy entrusted to me by the Oracle.”

  The queen lifted her eyebrows. “ You surprise me, my dear troubadour.” She signaled a gray-haired soldier. “Please take the scroll for me, Gideon.”

  Avrohom drew back. “This is meant for Your Majesty alone,” he said.

  Alessandra lifted a hand. Ten more soldiers in green doublets, with swords at their belts, came forward.

  “ You and your troupe are well regarded for your music, Avrohom,” said the queen. “But troubadours have never been used to carry messages for the Oracle. Did no one tell you that important prophecies, after being penned by the Master Priest, are guarded thereafter? Those who carry such messages are carefully chosen from among the most seasoned warriors the Temple can provide, and never travel without a squadron to add to their protection.”

  At that crucial moment, before Avrohom uttered a word in reply, when all waited for him to speak again, heralds in the doorway called out: “The First Priestess of the Temple of the Oracle!”

  Along with everyone else, Bryn turned to look.

  Ilona marched down the walkway toward the throne, unmistakable in her gold-embroidered robes. Beside her was a familiar yellow-haired woman, dressed in the red robes of a priestess. Temple guards filed behind them.

  Bryn found it hard to breathe. What is Clea doing here? And why is she dressed as a priestess?

  “ Your Majesty—” Avrohom began.

  The queen held up a hand. She waited until Ilona and Clea bowed before her.

  “We come with an urgent prophecy from the Master Priest,” Ilona said, thrusting forth a scroll.

  The queen took it. “ Your arrival is very timely, First Priestess,” she said. She snapped her fingers. Men-at-arms grabbed the troubadours. Dawn and Bryn were also seized and forced back from the queen.

  Gideon wrested Selid's prophecy from Avrohom's grasp.

  The queen stared hard at her captives. “Perhaps, First Priestess, you can tell me why a prophecy has been brought to me by a band of troubadours.”

  Clea spoke, her lovely face expressing concern. “False prophecy, Your Majesty.”

  “The Gilgamell Troupe was duped into believing they would do Your Majesty a service,” said Ilona.

  Clea pointed at Bryn. “That woman is a traitor to the Oracle. It was she who planted lies in the hearts of these good musicians.”

  The hall itself seemed to flutter as everyone craned their necks to see.

  “It's not true,” Bryn cried. “The Temple of the Oracle has been lying to Your Majesty! Your daughter, Princess Zorienne, is—” Her throat swelled, choking her. She tried to see the queen, but found Clea's blue eyes instead. Clea waved a dull black feather, tinged with gray.

  But her feather's gone.

  Bryn's hands and feet froze in place, her legs giving way so that the soldier who guarded her had to hold her up. Her ears buzzed. Pain seared her spine. This can't be happening. Her strength was draining, running like water through the quarry sluices. She tried to call back the force of her life, but it was like calling to a sinking tide.

  Death. She's cursing me with death this time.

  Ellerth, please, please. Don't let it end this way. We can't have come so far only to give this day to Keldes.

  Summoning every drop of life remaining, Bryn wrenched her captured gaze from Clea. She looked mutely at the First Priestess. Their eyes met. Ilona's gaze seemed possessed of an unearthly power that Bryn had never seen there before.

  The First Priestess sprang suddenly into action. She leaped at Clea. She shoved her violently. Clea tumbled. As she fell, Ilona snatched the vulture's feather.

  Temple guards stood transfixed. The queen's soldiers drew their weapons, ranging themselves between their sovereign and the strife. Jumping to her feet, Clea kicked out viciously. Her boot connected with Ilona's solar plexus. Ilona doubled over, the dark feather slipping from her hand.

  The feather slid along the floor. Temple guards rushed to catch the First Priestess before she fell. Queen and soldiers watched, temporarily stunned to see members of the Temple battling one another in front of the throne of Sorana.

  Bryn was regaining her power to move. Her own feet could hold her. Her vision lightened and she could hear again. A breeze ruffled her hair.

  Clea plucked the vulture's quill from the floor. She whirled upon Bryn.

  But the breeze rose swiftly to a furious roar. A blast tore the feather from Clea's grasp. She lunged after it. It eluded her. As if held by a human hand, it moved in intricate whorls just out of her reach. It flipped in the air and raced at Clea as if shot from a bow. The shaft thrust itself into her forehead, where it quivered like an arrow. She screamed, sinking to her knees. The odor of carrion surrounded her.

  The wind was not finished. It blew across the queen's soldiers, breaking their grip on their prisoners. Dawn stood like a flagpole, her gown a wild banner. Avrohom's ostrich plumes burst from their stitches and soared into the dome.

  Soldiers made a grab for the troubadours. The howling tempest flattened them. Among them, only Gideon remained standing; he squinted against the gale, helpless to prevent the wind from snatching Selid's prophecy. A purposeful gust dropped it into the queen's lap.

  The wind stopped.

  Avrohom thought quickly. “Hear me!” His famous voice blared into the sudden silence. “Anyone who touches a weapon will feel the might of the storm once more!”

  Bryn doubted it would happen as he said. A faint stirring of the air close to her skin was all that remained of the storm, but she was thankful Avrohom had spoken, and relieved that none of the soldiers raised their blades; instead they toiled to their feet and stood, dazed and swaying, weapons sheathed.

  “ Your Majesty,” Avrohom said in ringing tones, “I ask you again, this time as a troubadour and faithful subject, to read the prophecy delivered to you by Ellerth's power.”

  Alessandra swallowed, staring at the scroll in her lap. She picked it up. “After such a delivery, what queen would refuse?”

  She unbound the ribbons. She unrolled the parchment, revealing Selid's beautiful script.

  As she read the prophecy, the on
ly sound in the dome was the breathing of the crowd.

  The queen's eyes misted. She turned to look at her daughter with love and hope. “Gideon,” she said. “Take soldiers, and bring Mednonifer to me.”

  Gideon saluted. He and a company of soldiers marched out.

  The First Priestess ordered the Temple guards to form a tight circle around Clea and secure her hands. They did as she asked.

  Ilona beckoned to Bryn. “Come forward, wind-chosen prophetess.”

  Watched by queen and princess, Bryn did so. “Explain to Clea,” Ilona said, “and to all gathered here: what is the meaning of the feather in her forehead?”

  Bristling guards made way for Bryn to approach nearer. She looked down at the woman who had tried to curse her with death. “ You are cursed with your own feather, Clea, and the curse is this: for the rest of your life you'll be powerless to cast curses.”

  Clea didn't answer. Pale and sweating, she glared while people stared in ghastly fascination.

  “Not so pleasant when it's you who's cursed,” Bryn said softly.

  Ilona fixed Clea with a powerful glance. “ You are no longer a priestess,” she said. She turned to Bryn. “ You shall determine her fate, wind-chosen prophetess. What shall be done with her?”

  Bryn reached out, and took the dark feather from Clea's forehead. It slid easily into her fingers, leaving behind a small round mark. A little whirlwind grew in Bryn's hand. It tossed the feather into the dome, where a current of air floated it toward the door. At the entrance, a strong breeze rose and carried it outside. For a moment it hung suspended, a fleck of darkness against the blue sky, and then it blew away.

  “I put Clea into your care, First Priestess,” Bryn said.

  Ilona wondered if she should tell Bryn exactly what had happened. Should she reveal that before Clea could complete her curse, the wind's power had been augmented by the golden eagle's gift?

  When Clea began cursing you, Bryn, I knew at once she must be stopped. A death curse was never sanctioned by me.

  Ilona's gift—that of being able to magnify the gifts of others, enhance and make them stronger—had caught hold of the wind's dying force and brought it back just in time.

  Keldes was very eager for you, wind-chosen prophetess. He backed Clea with dreadful power.

  Bryn leaned against Dawn; she looked tired but content.

  If I tell her, my talent will no longer be secret. Ilona thought Bryn could probably be trusted, but then again, true secrets were meant to be kept. She would consider the matter carefully.

  Gideon returned, escorting a tall, narrow-shouldered man with a long black beard and overgrown eyebrows: Mednonifer, queen's physician. Hustled along by soldiers, he endeavored to maintain his dignity by walking so quickly that it wouldn't appear he was being hurried. The resultant hasty shuffle only made him look ridiculous.

  Pushed in front of Alessandra, Mednonifer gave a graceless bow. “My queen.” He bowed to Princess Zorienne. “Princess, I fear you are weary.”

  Queen Alessandra studied the physician. “Weary?” she said.

  He nodded his expert assessment. “Her unfortunate malady, Your Majesty.” He lifted an eyebrow in carefully posed concern. “Is this why I have been called to your presence, madam?”

  “ Yes, it is. But I doubt you would recommend the remedy that shall cure her.”

  Puzzlement. “The remedy?”

  Queen Alessandra lifted Selid's scroll. “I have received a prophecy from the Oracle,” she said, watching him closely.

  “Ah. You wish me to hear it?”

  “ You, and all those present.” Her wide gesture swept the hall. She turned to the Gilgamell Troupe. “Avrohom, I do not have a troubadour's voice, therefore I appeal to you to read aloud this prophecy.”

  Avrohom bowed. He took the scroll. Facing the gathering, he lifted his powerful voice:

  “To Her Honorable Majesty, Alessandra, Queen of Sorana: This prophecy proceeds from the Oracle's light. Princess Zorienne's illness is due to poison administered by Mednonifer, queen's physician. Not by food or drink, but by the air she breathes while sleeping.”

  Avrohom paused, allowing a collective gasp.

  Mednonifer's face went ashen. “Lies,” he cried. “I have tended her health!” He broke into a trembling run.

  The queen did not have to signal her soldiers—a battle nearly broke out as each tried to be the one to bind him.

  “The poison,” Avrohom continued, “has been applied to the princess's bed curtains. Send for a healer from the Healer's Keep in Bellandra for Zorienne.”

  Avrohom paused again. Princess Zorienne had risen from her throne. She stood, a frail woman with eyes more luminous than the opals on her gown.

  “Look to the east, Your Majesty,” Avrohom continued, “for those who would supplant Zorienne's reign.

  “Brought from my pen before the gods, “Renchald, Master Priest of the Temple of the Oracle.”

  “No!” Mednonifer shrieked. “The Master Priest—” Gideon clapped a hand over his mouth.

  “Take him away,” said Queen Alessandra, “lest I lose my conscience and order him spitted on the throne room floor.”

  As the former physician was led out, a bright scarlet bird flew in, straight to Zorienne. Circling her head once, it winged away again, leaving behind a single red feather that floated gently to the floor.

  When the pandemonium died down, the queen declared that Mednonifer should have a chance to prove his innocence. He would be confined within Zorienne's bed curtains until a healer arrived from Bellandra.

  Ilona bowed to the queen. “ Your Majesty, these events I've been privileged to witness have made plain that the second prophecy you hold—the one I gave into your hand—may be false. Would you be so kind as to give me leave to study it?”

  Queen Alessandra, radiant as Solz himself, needed a moment to recollect. She retrieved the sealed scroll. She handed it to Ilona, who concealed her passionate relief to have it back. Though she didn't know the contents, she suspected that if they were revealed and held up against the truth, the Oracle's authority would be damaged.

  She would read it later, in private. She, the First Priestess, would break the seal of the Temple and find out what Renchald had written.

  Reverently, she bent to pick up the red feather. I will honor you always, dear cardinal-chosen prophetess.

  The Gilgamell Troupe filled the palace dome with music to celebrate the news that Zorienne might live to rule Sorana.

  Thrilled though she was that Selid's prophecy had been delivered, Bryn couldn't shake an equally strong feeling of sadness. The sight of the red cardinal's feather landing on the floor had touched off a terrible dread. The First Priestess's face when she picked it up, and the way she had held it like a flower in homage to the dead, made Bryn want to burst into tears.

  She longed to be gone.

  Twenty-five

  Days later, on the road north to Zornowel, Brock told Kiran, “We should stop to rest soon, Mox.”

  “The sun is still high,” Kiran objected.

  Just then, Jack yapped wildly and took off running. “Come on,” Kiran yelled to Brock. Run, Obsidian. The stallion leaped forward, dashing after Jack. The white mare's hooves thudded behind.

  Rounding a bend, they pulled up short just in time to avoid crashing into a party of riders led by the First Priestess. With her rode a squadron of Temple guards; the sun bounced off the gold and red insignia on their breastplates. Jack darted past them all.

  In their midst was Clea, drooping in her saddle. Kiran looked at her warily. A puncture wound marked her forehead, and she wore a plain dress. Her blue eyes smoldered. Her mouth drew a bitter line. She said nothing.

  Ilona bowed from horseback, her dark eyes full of questions.

  Jack reappeared, weaving through the horses of the guard with Bryn beside him. Kiran jumped from Obsidian's back. Bryn reached for him in welcome, and he took both her hands in his. Her eyes lit like pools of golden fire.

 
Ilona chose an inn for all of them to stay in. Avrohom insisted on gathering the group of friends into his room. “ You also, First Priestess. True stories are best heard in song, but before they become songs, they need to be told.”

  Thus, Bryn learned from Kiran how Selid had died, and how Kiran had been cursed. The First Priestess hadn't told her about those events. Hearing of Selid's fate, Bryn bowed her head. Tears gathered in her heart. The cardinal-chosen prophetess had indeed given her blood for Sorana.

  A soft breeze floated around Bryn; a gentle voice spoke in her mind: Do not grieve. I walk with Monzapel now, and Lance is with me.

  Brock was the one who described how the Master Priest had joined Keldes. Listening to his story, Bryn felt furious elation tinged with sadness. Renchald had written false prophecies to the queen, plotted with Errington to prevent Zorienne's reign, pushed Kiran to pair with Clea, ordered Selid killed and Kiran cursed. For those crimes—especially for the horror of taking Selid's life—his death under the hooves of a valiant horse seemed fitting.

  But it was he who had lifted her from her bleak life in Uste. Because of him, she had been educated in the Temple. She'd known the splendor of the Oracle's light. She had met Dawn and Jack and Obsidian, Alyce, Jacinta, Willow, and Brock, who would be her friends for life.

  And she had met Kiran. He sat across from her, firelight illuminating his cinnamon-brown eyes.

  Now Renchald was dead. She wondered who among the priests would take his place. She glanced at the First Priestess to see how she took the news, but Ilona's face showed little.

  Avrohom told the tale of what had taken place at the palace, Kiran watching him intently as he spoke. When he finished with a report that Princess Zorienne had already experienced improvement after one night spent in a new bedchamber, Kiran's eyes glistened.

  Everyone was quiet for a few moments. Then Ilona spoke to Bryn. “Will you return to the Temple and serve the Oracle, wind-chosen prophetess?”