The Light of the Oracle

  When she staggered out into free air, she sensed she had landed in the future, and that she was in Sliviia, the empire beyond the Grizordia Mountains.

  The only light in the great room where she stood came from one narrow window and a skylight. The newly dead bodies of at least fifty men were strewn on the floor. Beside her was a soldier; he wore a leather doublet, striped gray and black, and steel-banded gloves. A black axe hung at his hip, its wicked blade gleaming. A double line of evenly cut scars ran from his forehead to his jaw. Fresh blood spattered his cheek.

  Bryn tried to jump away from him, but she couldn't move. He paid her no attention, and she realized he couldn't see her.

  Others like him were grouped nearby, all looking down at a man who lay bleeding from a cut in his throat. Though his position seemed helpless, the wounded man inspired fear. Who was he? Bryn wondered.

  Lord Morlen, said a voice in her mind—the bell-like tone she'd heard only once before, in the great room that held the altar to the Oracle.

  Morlen spoke in a rasping whisper. “I will seek you through death and beyond.”

  Bryn's heart pounded in terror. To whom did he speak?

  Lord Morlen will die, killed by a young woman with a knife, said the voice of the Oracle.

  Then the wind took hold of Bryn again, carrying her away from the dream of death in Sliviia, rushing her back through the wall of sand.

  Stirring uneasily, she was vaguely aware of lying on the gold velvet couch. She struggled to waken fully, wanting to sit up, to get off the couch, leave the bright chamber. But she might as well have tried fighting all the gods at once; she could not even open her eyes.

  The wind picked her up and threw her at the heavy wall again; the wall appeared as solid as it had the first time. Again it turned to sand, and she was borne through it to another place, another time, a different dream.

  A room with walls decorated in wooden mosaic surrounded her; the colors and shapes had been cut and polished like fine stones and then laid to form patterns like ripples in a pond. Candles were grouped on a shelf beside a slanted writing desk, their light flickering warmly.

  At the desk sat a woman, writing. Her head was bent in concentration, but as Bryn watched, she looked up, hazel eyes aware and staring.

  There was no mistaking that face. Clean now, and the lips smooth rather than cracked, the skin healthy instead of burned, hair neatly combed, expression calm, but recognizable nevertheless: it was the one who had screamed at the Master Priest from the side of the road in the desert.

  “ You lived?” Bryn whispered. This is a dream, she thought. She cannot hear me.

  But the woman nodded. “Don't tell him,” she said, looking directly at Bryn. “She'll never read my words.”

  Tell whom? And what? Bryn took a step closer to ask.

  Dawn went to wake Bryn. The two of them had been scrubbing latrines in the early mornings for a week, and still Bryn hadn't learned to wake herself before the gong. Drawing aside her curtain, Dawn was surprised to see that Bryn was up already. Where had she gone?

  Rushing to the washroom that adjoined the handmaids' hall, Dawn saw an empty row of porcelain basins. She hurried to check the latrines, but they too were deserted. She tore back to the handmaids' hall. Still no Bryn.

  Dawn gathered a water bucket and scrub brush.

  “Ellerth give me patience; I'll have to scrub all the latrines myself,” she muttered, shaking flakes of strong soap into the bucket.

  Dawn finished the last latrine just as the wake-up gong sounded. She raced to stash her cleaning supplies and wash her hands and face. She threw on her student robe, not bothering to smooth its folds. Standing watch at the door to the main hallway, she quivered with anxiety as face after face passed, none of them Bryn.

  “Did you have a nightmare, Dawn?” Eloise said. “Or are you the nightmare?”

  Dawn barely heard her. She prayed to Vernelda, Goddess of Justice and Love: Please, Vernelda, if I've offended you by asking so many times to stop growing taller, I'm sorry. If Bryn isn't here I'll have to report her missing, and what will the Sendrata of Handmaids do then? I'll be scrubbing latrines until the equinox.

  But once again Vernelda did not answer her prayers. Bryn did not appear.

  Renchald enjoyed his silent hour of meditation each morning. He knew many of the priests and priestesses secretly looked upon it as a chore, but not he.

  Today, however, something was wrong. He had performed the rituals flawlessly—lit seven tall white candles, one for each of the gods, and bowed to Keldes, Lord of Death, who looked after his choosing bird, the gyrfalcon. And yet, when he sat to meditate, instead of calm, a humming disquietude filled his mind.

  Renchald breathed slowly, reaching out with his awareness, asking Keldes for a vision to help him discover what was wrong in the Temple.

  He saw the keltice, the sacred knot, binding a silver thistle flower. The thistle grew out of a stone quarry, and the rocks of the quarry were carved with signs from the door to the deep chamber of the Oracle.

  Even as the vision arose, Renchald knew its meaning: the Oracle's alabaster chamber was in use, though no one was scheduled to be in it, and the one who slept there was not a priest or priestess.

  Stonecutter's daughter.

  Renchald's eyes flew open. Keldes give me strength.

  It seemed impossible. Perhaps he was mistaken. His powers of prophecy had been diminishing. But no, this vision was real. He felt the prickle of truth on his skin.

  But how did she get there? Why did no one stop her?

  He abandoned meditation. Clamping his jaw, he went to the door, opened it. Ilona, First Priestess, stood in the corridor beside a silent guard. She bowed instantly: First Priestess honoring the Master Priest. Renchald gave the return bow automatically.

  “The Oracle is calling, sir,” she said. “But she has drawn her veil. I cannot perceive to whom she speaks.”

  “The stonecutter's daughter sleeps in the alabaster chamber,” he said into her ear. “Fetch her to me.”

  Seven

  Bryn felt lost within a heavy chair. She gathered her thoughts, trying to comprehend that she was in the Master Priest's sanctum, led there by the First Priestess herself, who had woken her from sleeping on the golden couch.

  Along the walls beside her chair ranged tapestries of the gods, each one framed by a border of thick red satin. She looked for Solz, God of Light, hoping for his shining countenance, but instead she saw Keldes, Lord of Death. And in the corner, standing on a tall white pedestal, a black marble statue of a hulking vulture, rendered in such detail that Bryn almost expected it to fly at her and begin tearing her throat.

  From another chair the First Priestess gazed at Bryn with deep eyes. Up close, she seemed even more stately than she had looked standing at her place beside the Oracle's great altar; her dark braid wound about her head like a gleaming crown, her olive skin lustrous in the morning light streaming through windows, her high cheekbones and sculpted lips remindful of the tapestry of Ellerth, Goddess of Earth.

  The Master Priest faced them both, clenching his lean jaw. Bryn felt as if a belt squeezed her waist, but she wasn't wearing a belt; wasn't dressed yet, still in her plain cotton nightgown. When she tried to swallow, her mouth felt as dry as it had on the day she'd ridden through the desert. She wanted to ask for a drink, but what if they meant to deprive her of water again? For clearly, she had transgressed unknown rules.

  “Tell us,” Renchald said, “how you came to be in the deep chamber of the Oracle.”

  The arms of her chair were carved with designs. Bryn pressed her fingers into the grooves of the carving. “I followed—” But even as she spoke, she thought of how foolish she would sound. Followed thistledown? He would think her an imbecile.

  “ You followed?”

  Bryn swallowed. “I followed a light.” It was true, after all. She didn't need to say that the light came from thistledown. Besides, she realized then, she didn't want him to know about that. Ever.


  “A light? Where did you see it?”

  “In front of me, Your Honor. It led through the halls and down stairways.”

  “And no one stopped you?” His tone was icy.

  “I didn't see anyone, sir.”

  “ You followed a light from the handmaids' hall to the alabaster chamber?”

  So she'd been right. An alabaster room. “ Yes, sir. I was going to lie on the couch for only a few minutes. I didn't mean to sleep.”

  “And did you dream?” At her nod, he said: “Tell us your dreams.”

  The pressure Bryn felt around her waist worsened, and her mouth felt so parched she wondered if she could form any more words.

  “Speak,” he ordered.

  Bryn looked at the floor. “There was a man, full of darkness. A lord in Sliviia,” she said croakingly.

  “His name?”

  “Morlen. I believe he died, killed by a girl with a knife.”

  “Only a knife? Nothing more?”

  “Nothing more, Your Honor.”

  “What else?” His voice sharpened.

  She didn't want to tell him the rest. How to phrase for the Master Priest what she had seen? I dreamed of the one whom you rode past in the desert, the one who cried out that Ellerth would bury you.

  Her dream had been broken when the First Priestess shook her awake. There was more, she was sure, that she would have understood had she not been interrupted.

  “Speak,” the Master Priest urged again.

  She opened her mouth to tell him about the woman who had sat so solemnly writing. But just then she saw a glimmering plume of thistledown bobbing beside the door. A breeze began to blow within her mind. The breeze whispered: Don't tell him. She'll never read my words.

  Bryn clutched her belly, afraid she would be sick.

  Don't tell him, the breeze repeated. He'll find me and order me killed.

  Pain threaded through Bryn's joints, drawn tight by the knot in her stomach. She doubted she could walk. “I don't remember anything more,” she mumbled.

  When the pain mounted into her head, turning everything black, she felt grateful that she could no longer see the Master Priest's eyes. She fell forward onto the carpet.

  Ilona, First Priestess of the Oracle, summoned senior handmaids to bear Bryn to the infirmary after the girl fainted. Then she sat across from the Master Priest and waited for him to speak.

  Renchald was perfectly calm. “In all the annals of ancient lore, there is no mention of an unsanctioned member of the Temple being found in the Oracle's most sacred chamber,” he said.

  “It is indeed puzzling. The Oracle's hand must be guiding this stonecutter's daughter,” Ilona said.

  “Can we be certain it was the Oracle who led her?” he asked.

  “Nothing is certain: the Oracle never reveals all of her mysteries,” Ilona answered.

  “Perhaps this vision of Lord Morlen's death is Bryn's prophetic test. Morlen is a skilled Shadow Sorcerer. What girl could approach him with a knife, let alone kill him with it? However, time will tell.”

  Time. Yes, time, as always, would tell. Time revealed the truth, whether it was wanted or not.

  “Will you question the guards posted last evening to discover how Bryn went unnoticed?” Ilona asked.

  The Master Priest shook his head slowly. “That would never do. Word of this must not become part of Temple gossip. Have you spoken with anyone?”

  “No, sir. None but you.”

  “Let it remain so.”

  She nodded acquiescence. “I must confess to wondering which bird will choose Bryn.”

  “Perhaps no bird will choose her. Perhaps she'll be chosen by the wind.” His eyes hardened almost imperceptibly. “Are you astonished that I should mention it? The chance is remote, yes, but the possibility exists nevertheless. After all, it was the wind who led her to me. She was chasing after some thistledown when my horse nearly trampled her.”

  The First Priestess did not know how to answer him. She prayed that if Bryn turned out to be wind-chosen, the Oracle would help her guide such a gift— a gift she'd never encountered before and could not claim to understand.

  The infirmary smelled of lavender. Starched sheets crinkled around Bryn when she awoke, and the curtains on the windows looked like crisp shrouds. Emma, the Temple's apothecary, poked and prodded her, looked at her tongue, and then insisted she must spend the day in bed. “ You'll stay here the night as well.”

  “May I send word to my duenna?” Bryn asked, anxious about Dawn.

  “No, dear. The Sendrata of Handmaids knows of your illness, and that is as much as anyone needs to hear. The Master Priest has left word that you are to speak with no one at all about what occurred during the night—no one but him.” Emma's brown eyes glinted with curiosity.

  Bryn plucked at the sheet. “What will he do to me?”

  “Nothing, child, if you follow his orders. As you're new to the Temple, I remind you that orders from the Master Priest must always be obeyed.” She shrugged her plump shoulders. “Whatever you did, he has excused you.”

  Bryn nodded, and sank down on the pillow, but a leaden uneasiness lay in her stomach. She had the impression that she'd broken many rules, rules so important that perhaps they'd never been broken before. Would the Master Priest truly forgive her?

  Next morning, she was allowed to leave the infirmary. She hoped to slip into the handmaids' hall unnoticed, but just as she arrived, handmaids began surging through the doors, Eloise and Clea in the lead.

  “Ooh, look,” Clea called, pointing at Bryn and widening her blue eyes. “A rat dressed up in a nightgown.”

  “Ooh!” Bryn answered, pointing at Clea. “A talking stinkweed dressed up as a handmaid.”

  Eloise lifted her eyebrows. “Rats should be exterminated.”

  They swept past Bryn. Charis, chosen by the hummingbird, and Narda, chosen by the crow, were close on their heels, tittering raucously.

  Bryn edged her way through the door and hurried to Dawn's curtain. Dawn, looking tired, was arranging the bedclothes. She looked up and stood frowning, her black braid hanging over a shoulder. “ You couldn't have told me you were feeling ill?” She tugged at her blanket, the knobs of her wrists poking from her sleeves. “Now I have to scrub latrines until the fall equinox, because of the stir I caused when I lost you.”

  “I'm so sorry, Dawn, please believe me. I'll help you until the equinox, every day faithfully, if you'll wake me.”

  Dawn scooped up her pillow. She hurled it at Bryn. “Get dressed so we don't miss breakfast. I'm hungry.”

  When Bryn went to join Kiran for chores, Jack greeted her enthusiastically before she got near the door, leaping up to put his paws on her. Obsidian, the black colt Bryn had met her first day at the Temple, nickered a greeting from the pasture fence. She'd named him Obsidian after the shiny glasslike stone fired in the depths of the earth.

  Inside the stables, Kiran picked up a fifty-pound sack of oats, hefting it as easily as if it were filled with down. He set the sack on the stable floor to split the top with his knife, and asked Bryn why she hadn't been there to help him the previous morning.

  “I couldn't be,” she said. “I was with the Master Priest and First Priestess.”

  He leaned on his rake to look at her. “What did they want with you?”

  Bryn hesitated. “They ordered me to keep it secret.”

  His cinnamon-brown eyes searched her face. “I'd no more spill your secrets than Jack would.” He picked up a feed bucket.

  Bryn believed him. She had learned to rely on Kiran's word: if he said he would fetch a skittish stallion from the far pasture, it was done; if he promised to put together a new teasel brush by tomorrow, he'd place it in her hand the following morning.

  She wanted to tell him about the magical night and the frightening morning afterward; she didn't want to keep so many confusing events to herself.

  So be it.

  Bryn's tale burst out in choppy sentences, from the thistl
edown's appearance by her bed to the dreams that had taken her as she slept in the Oracle's chamber.

  When she described Morlen's death, Kiran raised an eyebrow. “ You saw it happen?” he asked.

  “No. But I heard a voice saying he would die. It was a very vivid dream.”

  “That wasn't only a dream,” he said gently. “That was a vision, and the voice you heard was the voice of the Oracle.”

  Did he mean prophecy? Bryn rubbed a foot through the straw uneasily, remembering what had happened during the queen's visit. Beware his sleeping death. She'd put the incomprehensible words out of her mind. What could they possibly mean?

  “The Master Priest wanted me to give him all my … dreams.”

  “Naturally he did. Visions are the trade of the Temple.” He sounded bitter. “Did you tell him what you saw?”

  “About Morlen's death, yes,” Bryn said. “But during our journey to the Temple something happened … so that I didn't trust him with the other dream I had.”

  She told him about the girl by the roadside in the desert, screeching at Renchald and begging for water.

  Kiran leaned in toward her. He began to question her intently. When she finished answering him, his color was very high, making his freckles stand out darkly. “It could only have been Selid,” he said.

  “Selid?”

  “Chosen by the red cardinal. Such a gifted prophetess that Renchald and the First Priestess were nearly swooning over her. But she let it be known she was keeping some of her visions back. They treat that as a crime here in the Temple. One day she was gone, and no one would speak of her.” He shut his eyes for a moment. “I'm glad you gave her water.” He shook his head. “I hope she survived.”

  Bryn nodded eagerly. “If it's true that those dreams were prophecies, she is alive. I saw her again.” She described the image of Selid writing at a slanted desk.