The Light of the Oracle

  “Oh.” Bryn felt ignorant again. She looked over her shoulder at the guard's bristling weapons.

  Dawn led her past immense gardens where young vegetable plants climbed upon trellises and poles. Broad beds of flowers patched the garden like a colorful quilt. Several acolytes and handmaids tended the plants.

  Dawn explained that the Temple grew produce and kept flocks of sheep, chickens, and geese to provide for its members. A vineyard and dairy were attached to the grounds as well. “Come on,” Dawn motioned.

  Scurrying a little to keep up, Bryn began asking questions. “ You said Jacinta was chosen by a dove? Why isn't she one of the Feathers, then?”

  Dawn snorted and waved her slender hands. “Jacinta's a poor tailor's daughter. Feathers call her ‘Pigeon' and coo in a nasty way when she walks by. You need more than a choosing bird to become a Feather—you must have a wealthy family. Clea's the first one they've accepted before she's been chosen by a bird.”

  “How does Clea know she'll be chosen by the vulture?” Bryn asked.

  Dawn shrugged. “Some claim to know their choosing birds beforehand, but most are wise enough to keep quiet about it. Nothing more humiliating than saying a certain bird will choose you and then being chosen by a different bird or by none at all.” Dawn's black hair set off startling azure eyes as she peered at Bryn. “I've always admired the heron, but people are seldom chosen after they are sixteen. I'm nearly eighteen, so this year will be my last chance.”

  Bryn thought the heron would suit Dawn precisely and hoped the elegant bird would choose her.

  Chickens squawked as they approached a large coop. Dawn jumped when a big wolfish dog suddenly appeared round the corner of the coop, but Bryn dropped to her knees beside the dog, stroking his speckled black and white coat. He looked at her through mismatched eyes, one bluish white, the other nearly yellow, then put his muddy paw on her shoulder.

  “ You'll have to wash your robe,” Dawn said, hanging back. “Jack isn't normally so friendly with strangers.”

  “Jack?” Bryn was fascinated by the dog's intelligent expression. “Hello, Jack.”

  The dog whuffed at her and pawed her shoulder gently, giving her a strangely human grin.

  Just then a young man strode out from behind the coop. Slightly taller than Dawn, he had shaggy reddish hair. Freckles sprinkled his skin as if someone had thrown baker's cinnamon powder over him. He looked at Jack. Bryn had the odd feeling that he and the dog were silently talking. About her.

  “Kiran, this is Bryn,” Dawn said, “a new hand-maid—and I'm her duenna.”

  Jack lowered his paw and Bryn got to her feet, her robe mussed. Kiran gave her a long glance; the shade of his eyes matched his hair. He murmured a gruff hello.

  “Hello,” she answered, feeling flustered and not knowing why.

  Kiran began moving away, whistling a short call to Jack, who paused to lick Bryn's hand before following the tall young man.

  Bryn twisted to look after them. Dawn left the footpath to walk through the grass that bordered a pasture fence. Bryn trailed after her, the long grass dragging at her robe. “But who is Kiran?” she asked.

  “He's from the Eastland. The Master Priest found him there,” Dawn answered. “He keeps to himself, but he's good with animals. Everyone says he should be swan-chosen.”

  “Should be?” Bryn asked in confusion.

  Dawn climbed the fence that divided a flock of sheep from a herd of horses. “A swan's feather means spirit-talk with the animals, though don't tell anyone I said so.”

  Bryn perched beside her, watching the colts gallop. “Why not tell anyone?”

  Dawn frowned. “We're not supposed to speak of the bird gifts. They're secret.”

  “Bird gifts?”

  “Gifts,” Dawn answered firmly. “All the bird-chosen can prophesy, of course, though some are much better than others—”

  “Prophesy?” Bryn interrupted.

  Dawn squinted at her. “Surely you know what prophecy is? Seeing visions sent by the Oracle. Visions of the future.”

  “Oh.” Bryn chewed her lip. “All the bird-chosen see visions, then?”

  “ Yes. While they're young. Prophecy dwindles with age,” Dawn explained. “I don't know how quickly it's lost—handmaids aren't told about such things. But beyond prophecy, all bird-chosen people have one other talent that's secret, a talent given to them along with their feathers. A few of the talents are so famous they're no longer secret. For instance, everyone knows that being chosen by the vulture means being able to cast curses. But the gifts are supposed to be hidden.” She leaned nearer. “At any rate, most of the bird-chosen are unable to use their gifts—except for prophecy—until they join the priesthood. After that, they guard the secrets of their gifts very closely.”

  “Oh.” Bryn thought of the way Kiran had looked at the dog Jack. “Is the swan feather famous too? Is that how you know it means spirit-talk with animals?”

  Dawn nodded. She lowered her voice. “A swan was winging for Kiran in the Ceremony of Birds when he was thirteen but he spoke to it—mind to mind—to make it leave without choosing him. He's sent it away every year since; I've seen him do it four years running. The Master Priest wants honored feathers such as the swan to be part of the Temple, of course. No doubt he's enraged by Kiran, though who can tell what the Master Priest is thinking?”

  Not I, thought Bryn. Just then a black colt dashed up to the fence. Dawn leaped down, but Bryn stayed where she was. The colt nudged her with his downy nose. She put a hand on his forehead and set her cheek against his face for a moment.

  “The colts won't be trained until fall,” Dawn cried. “He's wild.”

  Bryn patted the young stallion's neck before jumping off the fence. He pranced along the greensward, and something about the proud tilt of his head reminded her of Kiran.

  That evening, Dawn sat at her scarred desk with a worn Star Atlas, using her abacus to calculate the positions of Bryn's stars. Bryn had been born one minute past midnight on the day upon which the winter solstice fell.

  Dawn carefully drew the full star chart. She studied it closely to glean understanding from the symbols arranged in a circle on her parchment.

  Many unusual placements, with Ellerth foremost. According to the stars, Bryn is stronger than she seems. If I'm interpreting correctly, she'll need every bit of her strength to get through the next two years. Dawn cocked her head, wondering what sort of dire hardship could possibly overtake Bryn within the Temple. Would she fail to be chosen by a bird, and made to serve the likes of Clea and Eloise? Many men and women who came to the Temple as youngsters were never chosen by birds. They grew old within the Temple, wearing handmaid or acolyte robes throughout their lives, performing whatever tasks they were assigned. Would that be Bryn's fate?

  Dawn shook her head. She didn't think so. Bryn's chart held not one but three powerful aspects for prophecy. She'd surely get to be bird-chosen. No, her horizon showed portents of something much more menacing than being denied a feather.

  What could it be? If I only had Ishaan's knowledge, I'd comprehend better. Maybe I'm wrong. After all, what danger could come to her here in the Temple?

  Dawn thought of Selid, and shivered. A tap on her shoulder almost made her spill her ink. She hadn't heard Alyce draw her curtain.

  “We're summoned to the Sendrata of Handmaids,” Alyce told her, sounding disgruntled.

  Light from wall sconces bounced off the floor of the hallway as they hurried from the handmaids' hall to Nirene's office. Alyce tapped on the polished door, and Nirene called them in.

  “Be seated.” The Sendrata hardly noticed their bows, waving them toward chairs. “I must arrange chores for the new handmaids. Tell me what they'd be suited for.”

  Alyce slumped into her chair. “Cleaning latrines,” she muttered darkly.

  “Come now. That's reserved for punishment.” Nirene frowned. “Has Clea disregarded the rules?”

  “She looks down her nose at me constantly, but
there's no rule against that, is there?” Alyce answered.

  “Look to yourself, Alyce, or you'll be the one cleaning latrines. What work would she be suited for?”

  Fiddling with her blond braid, Alyce sighed. “She fancies herself a great reader.”

  Nirene nodded. “I'll put her in the library.” She turned sourly to Dawn. “And Bryn?”

  “But I've only just finished drawing her chart, Sendrata—”

  “Never mind the stars.”

  “But I thought you wanted—”

  “ You spent the day with her.” Nirene flapped a hand impatiently. “What is she good for?”

  Feeling muddled, Dawn tried to recall the time with Bryn. The girl had asked a hundred questions. She'd been much more interested in the outdoors than in the classrooms. They had needed to wash her robe because of all the dirt that clung to it, not to mention Jack's paw prints.

  “If nothing strikes you, Dawn,” Nirene said, breaking into her thoughts, “I will assign her—”

  “Kiran!” Dawn yelped. Then she caught herself and spoke quietly. “Bryn could help Kiran to care for the horses. She sometimes tended them back in her village.” She swallowed, hoping Nirene wouldn't find out that Bryn hadn't mentioned that she'd ever “tended” horses. But Ellerth, Goddess of the Earth and its creatures, is foremost in her chart. She's sure to be good with animals. The young stallion liked her, didn't he?

  “ You're recommending she help Kiran in the stables?” Nirene looked doubtful. “The girl is frightfully backward, and assisting an oaf like Kiran would hardly improve her manners.” Dawn said nothing, afraid that if she pressed, Bryn would end up working side by side with Clea or Eloise.

  Nirene drummed her fingers. “Very well,” she said at last. “Clea shall have her chores in the library and, if the Sendral of Horses approves, Bryn shall assist Kiran in the stables.”

  Five

  Bryn followed Dawn through cool stone corridors on her way to her first class in Temple protocol. She and Dawn entered a stream of blue-robed handmaids and acolytes flowing through the halls. Bryn's robe, which had looked lovely to her when she received it, seemed terribly worn now. Many students were draped in embroidered silk.

  Out beside the pond the day before, Dawn had told Bryn that the protocol instructor, Alamar, would expect her to know the correct bow for greeting him. “Show me your bow of respectful greeting,” she'd said.

  Bryn had reluctantly stopped watching the ripples of water where fish were splashing. She'd bowed as Dai had taught her, eyes cast down, hands meeting, body bending at the waist.

  Dawn clicked her tongue. “Might pass in the outer world but not here in the Temple. You aren't holding the bow long enough. And when you hope to receive knowledge, curl your thumbs toward your palms like this.” Dawn pulled her thumb joints back and pointed her thumbs inward. “Turn in your toes to show you have no status.”

  They had practiced until Dawn was satisfied. Now Bryn's bow would be put to the test.

  Once inside the classroom, she and Dawn stood at the back of the room. Alyce and Clea were there, bowing to the instructor, a thin, dry-looking man in gold-embroidered robes, who wore crystal spectacles.

  Clea's shimmering robe accentuated her graceful bow. The instructor pointed her to a seat in the front row of chairs.

  Dawn stepped forward and bowed: duenna introducing her ward to the instructor of protocol. “Sir, meet Bryn Stonecutter. Bryn, meet Alamar, a priest of the Oracle.”

  Bryn bowed. She knew as she straightened that she had been too hasty, had not shown full respect.

  Alamar's face remained impassive. “Sit in the tenth row, beside Willow,” he said.

  Dawn looked annoyed. She guided Bryn to a seat and left her to go to her own place several rows away. Willow, a girl near Bryn's age with olive skin and mild eyes, gave her a shy smile, but Bryn's cheeks burned. It seemed she could hardly take a step in the Temple without treading on her own ignorance.

  She stared about her, feeling small. The windows at the front of the room were taller than the baker's shop in Uste. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling—unlit because the sun shone—and Bryn saw not a single cobweb or mote of dust upon their shining surfaces.

  The rows holding student chairs were tiered, looking down on a circle at the head of the room where Alamar stood. “We will begin today with the gestures that express disdain or respect when bowing,” he announced.

  Bryn blinked. Had she heard him correctly?

  “I need two students to demonstrate the bows,” Alamar said. His eyes searched the room. “Kiran,” he called out.

  Kiran rose from a chair in the back. His acolyte's robe was shabbier than Bryn's—the cuffs badly frayed, the collar sagging, both sleeves stained. As he moved to the front of the room, his large hands bunched into fists at his sides.

  “And our new handmaid, Clea Errington,” Alamar said.

  Clea glided up to join Alamar and Kiran. Everything about her seemed to glow: her light hair, her silk robe, her satiny slippers. She bowed to the instructor—Bryn didn't recognize the bow but knew at once that it was expert—and to Kiran. Muffled laughter rippled through the room. Kiran glowered, the freckles on his face standing out like burnt crumbs.

  “Clever,” Alamar said. “Who can tell me what Clea's bow to Kiran meant?” He pointed. “Eloise?”

  Eloise rose. “That he might be her equal if he wore a new robe.”

  “Indeed,” Alamar answered. “However, Kiran would need to do far more to be the equal of this young lady.” Bryn's stomach turned as she watched Clea preening. “Now tell me, class, the meaning of this bow.” Alamar bowed to Kiran, and as he came out of the bow, he waved his right hand so that his palm faced backward and his index finger pointed up. At the same time, he lifted his right foot, scraping it slightly against the floor.

  This time he called on one of the young men. “Gridley.”

  Bryn saw only the back of Gridley's head. Neatly trimmed brown hair touched his neck; his rich robe draped his shoulders smoothly as he rose. “ You said Kiran walks in manure because he can't learn to be civilized,” he answered in a strong voice, enunciating every syllable.

  Bryn heard snickering.

  Alamar held up a hand, and the snickers died. “Not quite, Gridley. I said Kiran doesn't trouble himself with civilization, which keeps him close to manure.”

  Loud laughter. Bryn clutched her robe where it lay over her heart, all her sympathies with Kiran. What would he do? What could he say?

  Kiran gestured with both hands over his head, as though receiving something from above. He bowed quickly, his two fists meeting over his chest. He opened his hands as if flinging something down. Straightening, he stamped his foot against the floor with a ringing thud. He finished with one hand pointing at Alamar, palm up.

  Silence fell as Alamar glared at Kiran. “Leave at once,” the instructor said. “I will consult the Master Priest about your punishment.”

  Kiran held his shaggy head high as he left.

  * * *

  When Dawn guided Bryn out through the Temple doors in midafternoon, Bryn was so glad to be outside she nearly broke into a mad run.

  “I'll never, ever be able to understand what Ishaan is talking about.” She felt as if someone had been pounding numbers into her skull with a rock hammer. She looked up at Dawn with awe. “How do you understand everything?”

  “My first day I wanted to go home and never come back,” Dawn answered, waving her hands sympathetically. “If Ishaan had prophesied that I'd get to be head of the math class, I would have thrown my abacus at his head and called him a liar—except I wouldn't insult an instructor, of course; only Kiran would dare such a thing.” Dawn was walking so fast Bryn had to skip to keep up with her. “Promise me you'll never insult a teacher, Bryn?” The door to the stables was open and Dawn led the way in without waiting for an answer. “Kiran!” she called.

  Bryn stood in the wide entry, breathing the reassuring scents of horses and sweet hay
. Slits cut high in the walls let in shafts of sunlight.

  “Up here,” said a voice. Kiran, holding a pitchfork, looked down at them from a loft. He'd changed out of his student robes into pants and a shirt. Muscular forearms bulged out of his unbuttoned cuffs. “Look out,” he said, and tossed a bale of hay from the loft to the dirt floor. It landed with a thump, sending out puffs of dust as it burst its binding.

  “Did the Sendral tell you Bryn will be doing chores with you?” Dawn called up to him.

  Kiran nodded. He climbed down the loft ladder to stand in front of them.

  “Good, I'll leave you here. See you at dinner, Bryn, and I'll help you study in the evening.” Dawn rushed away.

  Bryn gazed about, hoping to see Jack. For no reason, a blush began burning her face. “Is your dog here?” she asked.

  “He's off exploring the far side of the pond. Likes to roam now and again.” Kiran was looking at her with the same unnerving keenness he'd shown when they met. Bryn had the feeling he could tell just how little work she was accustomed to and exactly how much she'd be capable of. She hoped he wasn't thinking she'd be more trouble than help.

  She gestured at the stalls, most of which were empty. The horses must be outside. “What needs to be done?”

  “The water trough filled. Grain measures made ready.”

  Bryn nodded. “I'm glad you stood up to Alamar,” she said impulsively.

  He raised cinnamon-colored eyebrows. “It was foolish. I expect a summons from the Master Priest any moment.”

  “What did it mean, the bow you gave?”

  He was silent a minute, and she wondered if she'd offended him. Maybe he wouldn't answer. Then he said, “It meant that although there is wisdom in the world, he doesn't have any, and the subject he teaches is less than manure.”

  “ You said that with a bow?” Bryn's eyes widened.