The Light of the Oracle (14 page)

Kiran looked into her eyes, the color of cornflowers lit by the sun. He didn't like her expression of smug confidence. She seemed to think he had only been waiting for the chance to be allowed to worship her. He picked her hand off his chest as he would take a burr from Jack's coat. “I was about to dance.” He turned to Dawn, standing rigid beside him in her too-short gown. He grasped her hand. “With Dawn.”

Clea's shapely mouth looked pinched. She spun round so fast her elbow jabbed Eloise, who stood
next to her. Eloise pouted. Clea flounced off, leaving Eloise to catch up with her.

Dawn beamed. “I warn you,” she said into Kiran's ear, “I'm not sure of the steps.”

“We'll get through this dance,” Kiran told her.

The troubadour sang,

Kiran and Dawn danced with more determination than skill, but they were getting through it.

For the rest of the evening, Kiran found himself sought after as a dancing partner. Each time he finished a dance, another handmaid stood at his elbow, smiling expectantly. He did his best to lose himself in the music, but it wasn't as easy as it had been in other years.

That same evening, in the darkness outside her home in Bewel, Selid raised a lantern to check the saddlebags on her horse. She looked wistfully one last time at the house where she and Lance had begun their marriage.

She'd seen a vision of Renchald striding toward her, keltice ring raised like a weapon; Bolivar beside him, wielding a sharpened dagger.

She must get away from Bewel immediately.

Beside her, Lance cinched his saddle. Selid had tried hard to persuade herself to leave her husband behind. She didn't want to risk condemning him to the same peril that followed her. But when forced to decide, she couldn't abandon him. To do so would break his heart, and hers.

“Tonight?” he had said when she told him. “What about the solstice celebration?”

“With so many in the streets for the celebration, we won't be noticed. I know how you honor Solz, but it's Monzapel who will be guiding us.”

Lance had given her one long look from his kind eyes. Then he'd nodded and begun packing his tools. Now, he locked the door as if they were going on a temporary journey, though Selid had assured him they would never return.

“Does it bother you terribly?” she asked, watching him.

Wrapping her in an embrace, he kissed her. Lance always smelled like freshly cut wood, a mixture of pine and cedar. “It will be an adventure,” he said.

“Without me, you could live the rest of your life in peace.” She stroked his rough cheek lovingly.

“ You're wrong. Without you, I wouldn't feel that I lived at all.” He kissed her again. “All's ready.” He turned and mounted his horse.

Selid stared through the gloaming at the spruce
tree, looking for the cardinal. Whistling, she circled the yard, but the bird did not appear.

They rode through the gate. Lance dismounted to close it behind them. Monzapel opened a pathway of light as they set out into the cold.

And a streak of red cut through the dark to land on Selid's shoulder.

The day after the Solstice Festival, Bryn stumbled out to the field near the Temple's pond, the place where she'd last seen the thistledown. Sitting curled small, she looked out at the water. Its surface was as icy and fixed as the curse over her mind. Dead grasses and weeds surrounded her. A lone larch tree etched bare branches against gray sky.

A furry muzzle pressed against her. “Jack,” she said. The dog whined softly, then laid his head in her lap.

Kiran appeared and sat down across from her. He looked different; his hair had been trimmed. He pointed to where, across the pasture, Obsidian galloped. “Look at him run,” he said, and then startled Bryn by adding, “My father was a drunk who dragged me into the gutter with him, but he knew horses better than anyone, and he taught me what he knew. Obsidian is worth all the rest of the Temple horses put together.”

Bryn didn't know what to say. It was the first time Kiran had told her anything of his life before coming
to the Temple. She felt suddenly awkward and shy, just as she had the day she met him.

He turned to her. His keen cinnamon-colored eyes studied her. “Jack noticed you and insisted we follow,” he said. “He's missed you. Obsidian misses you too.”

And you, Kiran—do you miss me?
She stroked Jack's speckled fur, and felt the color rushing into her face.

Kiran leaned toward her. “ You missed the festival. What's wrong?”

Bryn swallowed, thinking she might as well tell Kiran part of the truth—the part that everyone must know. “My visions have grown terribly murky.” She didn't like saying it out loud; the spoken words seemed to give the curse finality. “The Oracle doesn't speak to me, and I don't believe she ever will again.”

His eyes were steady. He couldn't be surprised, for he'd seen her fall to the foot of the prophecy class. “Why?”

She wanted to tell him, but Clea's words circled her mind:
I'll put death curses on your friends. Don't think I wouldn't
.

“The lighted thistledown came to me,” Bryn said. “I didn't follow.” Her eyes stung.

“Where did it want you to go?”

“Toward those sheds, I believe.” She pointed to the outbuildings beside the pond.

Kiran looked from her face to Jack. A long minute passed as his hands slowly formed into fists. When he spoke, he said the last thing Bryn expected. “She cursed you.”

“What?” Bryn flinched, startling Jack, who took his head from her lap and then sat on his haunches beside her, ears pricked.

“Clea. She cursed you. Didn't she?” Kiran's voice was as gruff as she had ever heard it. His face looked hot, his freckles darkening as if singed.

“But how did you—?” Bryn broke off. She looked about frantically. What if someone else had heard?

Kiran pulled a brittle stalk from a clump of dry weeds. “If I promise to keep the secret, will you stop looking like a ghost?”

Bryn gripped her hands together.
You're all right
, she told herself.
This is Kiran. He won't talk about it with others
. “ Yes,” she answered. “ Yes, and you mustn't tell anyone.”

His eyes fastened on her. “If a curse can be cast, it can also be lifted.”

“But a vulture-chosen curse is forged by Keldes and backed by the other gods.”

He shook his head. “If the gods want you cursed, I don't hold with the gods.”

She looked fearfully at the sky.

“Afraid Keldes will strike me?” He inspected his hands. “Still whole.” He pretended to examine his legs, patted his chest and head. “Aren't you wind-chosen?” he asked, voice gentle.

She looked at the ground. “I don't know anymore.”

“Bryn, the gods gave you the wind and allowed me speech with animals.” He touched Jack, and the dog's tail wagged devotedly. “I hold with that.”

“But you haven't gone against … you haven't done
anything against …” At his puzzled look, she rushed on. “I didn't follow the thistledown and now I don't think it will ever help me again. I'm afraid the wind has unchosen me. I don't hear its whispers anymore, don't feel it lifting my hair or brushing against my face. It's all stillness now.”

There. I've said it. Not only prophecy, but the wind too has gone from me.

Kiran scooted closer to her, reaching out his hands. He waited for her to take them. When she did, he rubbed her fingers, his skin full of heat despite the frosty air. “Bryn, I'm not sure of much. But I'm sure the gods would not withdraw from you forever after one mistake.”

Shutting her eyes, she clung tightly to Kiran's hands, praying he was right.

“Bryn?” he said, as if he thought she might not be able to hear him.

“ Yes.” Letting go of his hands, she opened her eyes, hoping the wind would touch her. She searched for any movement, any sign of a breeze, but the only thing stirring was a branch of the young larch. A bird had landed on it with a flash of scarlet wings.

“Look,” Bryn cried, pointing.

“The red cardinal. Selid's choosing bird.” Kiran cocked his head. “Cardinals normally leave for the winter.”

The bird flew toward them. They watched it make a circle over their heads before winging away.

“Is it Ellerth who watches over the cardinal?” Bryn asked.

“The cardinal belongs to Monzapel. Ellerth governs the wind, though.” Kiran looked into her face. “And the swan, too.” He rose, stretching his long legs. “As I said, Obsidian misses you.” He extended a hand. “He's grumpy without you.”

Bryn got to her feet. “Thank you for not reporting all the times I've skipped chores to the Sendrata.”

“I'll say nothing so long as you'll help me now.”

Bryn resolved to act as if all were well with her again. She knew her friends had been worrying, especially Dawn, who had been scrubbing latrines alone, letting Bryn sleep in. Dawn had been murmuring many prayers to Vernelda and Ellerth, asking that Bryn be looked after.

Before going to lunch, Bryn washed her face and hands and combed her hair. She entered the dining hall, and took her place. Dawn welcomed her anxiously. “Are you feeling better? Stars and luminaries, you've got to stop looking like death.”

Bryn forced herself to push through her cloudy despair and smile a little. “I'm much better. No more ducking out of scrubbing. But you'll still have to wake me in the mornings.”

Dawn put an arm around her, gave her a quick squeeze.

As soon as the grace had been spoken, Eloise's voice pierced Bryn's ears. “Each time I begin to feel safe from vermin, I see another rat.”

“They creep right out of the
stone
,” Clea replied.

Her laugh joined Narda's raucous cawing and Charis's humming twitter.

Dawn had a mug in her hand. She slammed it down so hard it shattered, the milk splattering. “Did you know,” she said, raising her voice into the sudden quiet, “that woodpeckers spend all day looking for
grubs
? And crows love garbage better than anything else, while vultures are particularly fond of maggots!”

The entire dining hall seemed to have stiffened into shock, handmaids staring openmouthed and frozen, particularly Eloise, who was chosen by the woodpecker.

Then Alyce, who had just taken a drink of milk, began to splutter helplessly. Jacinta pounded her back, trying to be helpful while exploding into giggles herself. Willow too went off into gales of laughter.

As she stared at the three of them sitting across the table, Dawn's frown vanished. She let out a whoop.

Conversation resumed in a loud buzz. Bryn tried desperately to laugh along with her friends, but all that came out were dry sobs. She covered them up as best she could, hiding her face while the others held their sides. At least no one could hear her crying.

Desperately, she stifled her sobs. She looked up. Two senior handmaids were bearing down on their table, carrying whisk brooms, faces set in severe lines. They swept up the shards from Dawn's smashed mug and put a fresh one in its place, muttering about carelessness as they sopped up the spill.

For the rest of the meal, if any of the handmaids at Bryn's table whispered “grub” or “maggot,” the others
would laugh, half choking on their food. Even ominous glares from the Feathers didn't stop them.

Bolivar's frustration was growing. He'd roamed the streets of Bewel, questioning the inhabitants, trying to discover news of Selid. He and Finian and Garth had arrived in the late afternoon the previous day, the day of the Solstice Festival. Too many of the shops had closed in preparation for the festivities; far too many of Bewel's townspeople had begun their celebrations early by drinking strong wine. Bolivar wished he still wore the Temple insignia that made common people treat him with respect. The fools he talked to here were barely courteous. A young scribe? No indeed, they knew nothing of a young woman who might have come among them sometime late last spring.

Finian and Garth fared no better. Once Solz's celebration began in earnest, the hubbub in the streets was so tumultuous as to give all three of them splitting headaches. They had resorted to watching the comings and goings of the people, hoping to catch a glimpse of Selid by chance. Finian had been quite morose over missing the Gilgamell Troupe; Bolivar had to reprimand the young soldier sharply to keep him from accepting tankards of wine from passersby.

Now it was the afternoon of the following day. The town had been nearly deserted for most of the morning, the shops sealed tightly.

Dissatisfied and hungry, Bolivar finally found a baker's shop opening its doors. He asked for a dozen hot rolls. The baker's wife was exceedingly friendly, so
he chanced repeating his question about the scribe. The woman answered delightedly, “Oh, you must be looking for Zera, who's married Lance the carpenter. She does a bit of scribing.”

Her directions were only slightly confused. Bolivar found the carpenter's gate with no more than a few wrong turns. He lifted the latch, noting that it was well oiled. Stepping into the yard, he approached a snug cottage. Selid's carpenter, whoever he might be, was a fine craftsman.

He rapped at the door but received no answer. He broke the lock with a swift blow from his knife. Entering the house with his men at his back, he made a quick inspection.

“Gone,” he announced. He kicked over a chair.

“Shall we wait, quiet-like, until they come back?” asked Finian.

Bolivar shook his head. The hearth was swept clean. “We come too late,” he said.

Renchald was not pleased with Bolivar's report. He dismissed the soldier and sat alone in his sanctum, considering.

Oh, how bitterly he missed being able to see the future.

As Master Priest, he was heir to exceptional training, skill, and power: training in the most closely held secrets of the ancients; skill to hold effective ceremonies; power to perceive what was invisible to others.