The Light of the Oracle (15 page)

None of it could keep him young.

His prophetic ability was failing at a disturbing pace. He was unable to foretell the simplest events anymore.

He had been told it would be so: the gift of prophecy, like Solz's journey through the day, waned with age, eventually sinking. Temple teachings declared that, as Master Priest, he would value wisdom more than the heady show of prophecy. But the wisdom Renchald possessed did not console him for what he had lost.

He knew he ought to be more grateful for the gyrfalcon's secret gift, a gift that would give him ascendancy for as long as he lived. But to use that gift upon others, they had to be in his presence.

Selid was far away, he knew not where.

Renchald sighed. Blind to the future though he was, he would not give up the search for his former pupil.

Clea had seen through Selid's etheric cloak, but not clearly; only the vaguest outlines of her life. It would require more than that to find the renegade prophetess again.

Renchald turned to face the gyrfalcon tapestry on the wall. “The best hope left to me,” he said, speaking aloud to the spirit of his choosing bird, “is to train Clea to link with a male prophet for greater clarity of vision.”

He stared into the fire burning on his hearth, reviewing in his mind the young male prophets. Whom should he choose to pair with Lord Errington's daughter? It would need to be someone with extraordinary abilities.

* * *

A few days later, after classes had resumed, Kiran headed back toward the stables from a trip to the storage shed where the oats were kept. A chilly wind flew in his face. He smiled as Jack bounded through the cold to meet him. Setting down the heavy sack, he rubbed Jack behind the ears.

Ahead, he saw Bryn sitting on the pasture fence, hand outstretched to Obsidian, who bent his magnificent head for her to stroke his nose.

“Do you see that, Jack?” Kiran said softly. A bubble of stillness surrounded Bryn and the horse; the stallion's mane lay flat against his neck, and Bryn's hair didn't stir either. Dead grasses bent in the wind all along the rest of the pasture but stood quiet at the fence where she sat.

Kiran stood and stared for several minutes. He kept waiting for the breeze, which blew so strongly everywhere else, to touch Bryn.

It didn't.

He thought back to their talk by the pond after the solstice. What was it she'd said about the wind?
I don't hear its whispers anymore … It's all stillness now.

All stillness.

Watching her, Kiran wondered if the curse on Bryn might also be making her somewhat invisible. Why else would the change in such a gifted prophetess fail to draw everyone's notice?

He approached the pasture fence as she climbed down. He wondered what it must be like to live as an echo of what she had once been; to move through her
days, seeing wind in the trees and on the path but never feeling the smallest breeze.

“The wind doesn't touch you,” he said.

She looked suddenly so bereft that he didn't fight the urge to put his arms around her. For a moment Bryn sighed against him, but then she pulled away.

Kiran captured one of her slender hands in both of his. “There must be some way to lift the curse,” he said.

“Perhaps so.” She sounded hopeless, her golden-brown eyes sad.

I'll find a way
, Kiran vowed to himself, but he didn't speak aloud. And thinking of Clea, with her pretty airs and graces, her sneers and sideways smiles, he felt rage so hot it seemed the grass beneath his feet should rightfully catch fire.

Summoned to the Master Priest's sanctum late that afternoon, Kiran gazed through the window at the sunset flaming the skyline outside. Failing red light clung to the heavy drapes, dulling the cords that bound them; it spread onto the Master Priest's robes, washing the gold embroidery at his collar and cuffs with darkness.

This time Kiran was invited to sit.

“It's time you took your rightful place in the Temple,” said the Master Priest.

“Rightful place?”

“ You're a black swan prophet, Kiran. I would like to begin training you in the techniques of paired prophecy.”

Kiran tensed. Paired prophecy was such a secret technique, he had heard only rumors of it.

The growing shadows seemed to transform Renchald's lean face into that of a gyrfalcon. “ You're a gifted prophet, Kiran, though you hide it well. The Temple needs you. Your prophetic powers will begin to decline in less than ten years. By pairing with another whose powers are also at their height, you can bathe in the brilliance of the Oracle's light, walk at will through the future. You can travel effortlessly wherever the Oracle sees fit to take you. Your mind will fill with insight and become a thousand times more powerful.”

Fill with insight
. Kiran thought of Bryn. Might Renchald be able to teach him something that could help her? “What
is
paired prophecy?” he asked cautiously.

“A method for linking with the mind of a prophetess.”

“How would I learn it?”

“Report to me for evening study. A class of one.”

Could Kiran bear Renchald's company—alone? Could he endure learning from the Master Priest, while watched by a vulture statue and a tapestry of Keldes?

“Because the pairing techniques are so secret,” Renchald continued, “ you will be required to give your solemn word not to reveal what you learn and not to discuss that we are meeting.” He laced his fingers together, his two hands like one large fist. “If you begin, you must agree to complete
all
the lessons I set for you.”

Kiran's mind churned.
I swore to help Bryn. What if this is my chance?
He took a deep breath. He nodded reluctantly. “I agree. I give you my word.”

The Master Priest leaned back in his chair, face inscrutable. “Because the black swan is your choosing bird, you'll have an extraordinary aptitude for learning to link with a prophetess.”

Kiran glanced at the vulture statue, so smooth and darkly shining. He felt suddenly cold. “Which prophetess?”

“Clea Errington.”

Kiran gripped the arms of his chair.

“As her prophecy partner,” the Master Priest's relentless voice went on, “ you will have firsthand knowledge of all her clearest visions. You will see them too.”

Kiran remembered Bryn's dream of Selid.
If Clea had seen that vision, the Master Priest would have been told of it instantly
. Kiran ground his heel into the carpet. Clea bore watching, but the idea of linking with her mind revolted him. He crossed his arms. “Will she know
my
thoughts?”

“No. You have powerful inner barriers. Besides, she will not be trained to form links herself. She will have to rely on her pairing prophet for that.”

“ You promise this?”

“I promise.”

Dawn and Alyce swung between them a large basket filled with food they'd wheedled from the Temple kitchens for a Velday picnic to celebrate the warmer weather. Just ahead, rays of sun played with the pond waters; a few early butterflies skimmed the air. Marvin, Jacinta, and Calden sat on a blanket spread a short way from the sandy edge of the pond. Leaning against the larch tree, Kiran watched Brock, Willow, and Bryn skipping stones. Jack explored the weeds that grew on the far banks of the pond.

Marvin stood as the two young women approached with the basket. “Food!” he called to the others. He smiled at Alyce. “And beautiful maids,” he added, taking the basket and setting it on the blanket.

Kiran lifted a pitcher sitting in the shade next to him. Pouring two glasses, he handed them to Alyce and Dawn.

“Mmm. The wine is almost good,” Dawn said, grinning.

Brock chuckled. He'd been assigned to the Temple vineyards when he first arrived. Now he
clapped one hand against his chest. “ Yes, m'lady, you drink the nectar of fermented grapes that have been expertly tramped on by smelly-footed acolytes.” He lifted his own glass high. “To nectar!”

The others joined his toast, laughing.

Dawn folded herself onto the blanket. “Is anyone else hungry, or am I the only one doomed to grow forever?” She motioned to Kiran. “ You're my only hope of equality. Have some food?”

Kiran sat. “I wouldn't want you to eat alone.”

Brock dug in the basket. “Look! Not only mashed cheese pastries, but also squashed jam tarts.”

Dawn pushed him aside. “Don't you know what I mean by
hungry
?”

Brock threw up his hands. “ You and Kiran. Don't forget, those of us who aren't natural-born giants need to eat too.”

Rolling her eyes, Dawn replied, “There's nothing natural about being a giant, but there's something
un
natural about an owl-chosen boy who's never serious.”

Brock rumpled his black curls, making them stand up all over his head. “ You didn't accuse me of not being serious when I subtracted the math crown from your head, Oh Queen of Numbers.”

Dawn snorted. Brock was so endearing she enjoyed their classroom rivalry. “Watch yourself, Prince of Theorems, or you'll find it taken away again.”

She passed pastries around, and everyone began eating with gusto while Brock kept up an ongoing stream of banter.

As Kiran reached for his fourth cheese pastry, Brock punched his shoulder. “ You're a glutton, Mox. Or did the swan give you the secret gift of oafishness?”

Kiran shrugged good-naturedly. “Not so secret,” he said with his mouth full. He lifted his glass. “To oafishness.”

They clinked glasses together, guffawing.

“Look,” Bryn said, “we have company.”

Eloise and Clea, Charis and Narda led several more of the Feathers toward their picnic spot. Brock's merry expression vanished, and Kiran scowled. The two of them got to their feet and stood defensively in front of their friends as the Feathers approached.

Clea and Eloise stopped a few feet away from Kiran and Brock, their friends behind them like maids of a court. “Hello, Kiran,” Clea said, stepping forward. She put a hand on his chest, drawing a circle with her fingers. “We're going to have a picnic. Join us?”

“Just eaten,” Kiran answered, his scowl deepening.

Clea smiled seductively. “Maybe you'd like to see what else we have besides food.” She put her other hand on his arm, squeezing. “Good company.”

Kiran lifted her hand off his chest, removed her other hand from his arm. “I expect my dog will be here soon,” he said. “I doubt he'd enjoy your company.” The freckly patches on his face darkened as he reached into his pocket. He brought out a wad of blue cord. Catching up Clea's hand, he thrust the wadded sash into it. “This belongs to you.” He wiped his hands on his shirt.

Clea studied the bunched-up silk. “What are you saying?” She widened her eyes innocently.

“Don't pretend with me,” Kiran said through clenched teeth. His fists bunched.

She gave a little shrug as if he were incomprehensible, then turned gracefully, her silk robe swirling. She linked her arm through Eloise's. They moved away, the other Feathers following.

Kiran stared after them as they disappeared behind a knoll.

Brock slapped Kiran lightly on the back and then dropped onto the blanket. “Have a jam tart, Mox.”

The furious heat in Kiran's eyes died down. He rejoined his friends and took a tart. “To oafishness,” he said.

Across the Lyden Desert, Selid waved to Lance as he headed out through the gate of their new home in Tunise. Lance, going by the name of Glenn, had joined the carpenters' guild; he had all the work he wanted. Buildings were springing up in expanding districts, and improvements being made in the older sections of the city.

Selid was known as Lorena now. She cautiously acted as a scribe again, but only in service to the poor, providing her skills to them in exchange for whatever they could give in return: handfuls of lentils, perhaps a potato or an egg, but most often simply earnest goodwill.

Selid went into her workroom. She stood in the middle of the floor, breathing the fragrance of cedar
and pine. This place soothed her heart. It seemed built not only of wood, but also of Lance's love. He'd created a slanted writing desk for her. He'd even made a mosaic along the walls out of chips of oak, mahogany, and maple.

Selid gathered ink, quill, and parchment. She put a threadbare scarf over her head. She set out on foot for the impoverished district known as Scat Alley.

She reached the tea shop where she read or wrote letters for the uneducated poor. The owner of the shop called himself Sir Chance, “patron of the unlucky,” and had named his establishment the Little Best. Sir Chance devoted his enormous girth to spreading cheer and his brawny arms to keeping order. He kept a great kettle of soup warm, doling out generous portions to anyone who could spare the small payment he asked. He replenished the soup continually by flinging unrecognizable scraps into the kettle, stirring, tasting, and then adding pinches of flavor from his spice kegs. He brewed strong tea in vats and served it in large steaming mugs along with buns the size of platters.

“Lorena!” he called heartily when Selid entered. “Hungry, m'dear?”

She never bothered to tell him no. He would urge food upon her whether she arrived empty or full. She submitted quietly to being plied with soup, tea, and bun.

“Ginette!” yelled Chance. “Scribe's here.” He pointed a beefy finger at Selid.

A woman drew near Selid's table. Though her hair
was gray, her expression was that of a hopeful child. She fumbled in the folds of her ragged skirt and brought forth a dingy parchment. “From my son in the queen's capital city,” she said, sliding it toward Selid.

“ You'd like me to read it?”

“Please, ma'am.” Her mouth quivered with eager anticipation.

Selid smoothed the creased parchment. She read aloud:

Selid stopped. Her forehead ached, and she saw a telltale play of light begin washing the parchment she held. She dropped it as if it would burn her fingers.