The Light of the Oracle (16 page)

No.

She had vowed, when she and Lance arrived in Tunise, never to prophesy again. It was too dangerous, not only to her, but to her beloved husband for being near her. She reasoned that if she didn't prophesy, the Master Priest would cease to hunt her; if she didn't prophesy, it would be simple to hide herself with only a thin etheric cloak, for she'd have nothing more to conceal than her own presence.

The cardinal still dwelt nearby, making its home in
a tall pine, and Selid still fed the lovely bird. But she refused every vision.

She had hoped to gain a measure of peace that way, but peace eluded her. During the day, shadows seemed to pursue her. When she looked over her shoulder, they vanished; when she looked ahead they returned to haunt her. Nightmares broke her sleep; nightmares of the Master Priest bringing his keltice ring close to her face and Bolivar lifting a gleaming dagger.

“What is it?” Ginette's eyes widened. “Is something the matter?”

Selid snapped back to awareness of her surroundings. She was in the Little Best, scribing for the poor. She rubbed her forehead, deliberately darkening her visionary eye. She picked up her mug. “No, your son is quite well.” She took a long drink of tea before reading on. “…
We have an order from the queen's own physician for bed curtains and an order for Lord Laversham's front windows. My uncle sends his kind regards. Be of good cheer. Your devoted son, Gel
.” Selid looked up. “Would you like to send a reply?”

A few days later, Renchald waited in his sanctum for Kiran and Clea to arrive for their first prophecy pairing. Spring was well under way, and the two young people had been studying separately long enough. Both had demonstrated mastery of the techniques he had been teaching them. It was time to bring them together.

Clea arrived first. She bowed deeply as protocol dictated, holding the bow longer than normal.

Kiran was several minutes late. His bow as he entered was perfunctory at best. He dropped into the chair beside Clea. The Master Priest looked from one to the other. Clea, in her silk robe, with gold clasps fastening her yellow hair; Kiran, wearing what must be the shabbiest robe he could find, with his hair un-combed.

Renchald poured tea into prophecy cups on the table beside him. He handed each student a teacup. “ You will begin with a prophecy of minor significance. The leaves are from Lord Lindenhal, who resides in the Northland. Newly married, he asks for a prophecy regarding children.”

Clea sipped daintily. Kiran tossed his tea down, the delicate cup appearing overly fragile in his large fist.

“I will assist you through the pairing,” Renchald told them. “Are you ready?”

Clea's eager “ Yes” contrasted with Kiran's sullen nod.

After guiding Kiran and Clea back from the prophecy, Renchald allowed them a few minutes to compose their thoughts. Clea gazed at Kiran. Her eyes, for once, held no disguise, as if her choosing bird looked out of them; as if she'd caught the scent of a kill and knew it would lead her to all the meals she wanted. Kiran leaned back in his chair, breathing as if he needed more air.

The Master Priest dipped his pen. He turned to Clea, his hand poised above a fresh parchment on the table beside him. “Tell me your vision.”

She dragged her gaze from Kiran. “Lord and Lady Lindenhal will have no children, Your Honor.”

Renchald's quill hovered. “Ever?”

“She is barren, sir. Nothing can be done for her.” Her voice was cool and sure.

Renchald raised his eyebrows to Kiran. The young man nodded tiredly.

“Did you see anything else?” the Master Priest asked Clea.

“Her white stallion will go lame,” she answered. “He has a black star on his left flank.”

Such details were invaluable in prophecy. The pairing seemed to have brought the added clarity that Renchald had hoped for.

Kiran roused himself. “The wording should be:
Put Lady Lindenhal's favorite white stallion, the one with a black star on his left flank, out to pasture and allow no one to ride him
.”

Clea gave her head a little toss.

Renchald wrote the prophecy. He would have preferred a more auspicious tiding for Lord Lindenhal, but he wouldn't tamper with the vision—the Oracle's reputation depended on prophecies that would be borne out.

He laid down his pen. “ You are dismissed,” he told Clea. “We meet again in one week at the same hour.”

When the door closed behind her, Kiran sat more upright. “Clea wanted to give Lord Lindenhal the means to break his young wife's neck if he liked,” he said. He kicked at the carpet. “I don't want to pair with her again.”

Keldes, give me patience
. “ Your lessons are not yet complete.” Renchald spoke calmly. “ You will learn a great deal more through practice.”

Kiran looked furiously angry. But the Master Priest knew he would not break his word.

Kiran left Renchald's sanctum, his heart aching, mind churning. He took a side passageway, fearing that Clea would be waiting for him somewhere along the main corridor. The passageway led into a tangle of unknown halls. He was glad to come upon a senior acolyte, who directed him to the nearest outer door.

Once outside, he gulped air desperately. He heard the dinner gong but ignored it, heading for the pond and woods, whistling softly for Jack. The evening breeze lifted his hair, stroked his cheek, caressed his neck. Jack bounded to his side. Kiran was moving so fast that if Jack hadn't been with him, he wouldn't have seen Bryn sitting on the flat rock by the pond, staring at the water. The dog greeted her enthusiastically.

Kiran noticed, as he always did now, that the breeze he'd been so grateful for didn't touch her. His frustration rose.

“Kiran?” Bryn said. “Are you all right?”

He sat beside her. Her brown braids lay limp against her worn robe, and her face looked tired. Kiran took a long breath. It was time he made some attempt to help her.

“Bryn,” he said gently, “do you trust me?”

She bent to pet Jack, one of her braids falling over
her shoulder, partly hiding her face. “The only one I trust more than you is Jack.” The dog grinned wickedly at Kiran, tail thumping.

How restful it was to be next to her instead of Clea. Bryn didn't run her eyes over him as if he were a rich delicacy, didn't speak with Clea's glittery tones.

He cleared his throat. “Do you trust me enough to let me link with your mind?”

She blinked at him, golden-brown eyes wary. “The way you do with Jack?”

“Something like that.”

A flush crept up her face. “Would you know my mind the way you know Jack's?”

“I'd be looking for one thing only.”

“What?”

“Clea's curse.”

Bryn hugged her stomach. “How would you know where to find it?”

“I think it would be different from the rest of your inner landscape,” he said, and then realized he had spoken one of Renchald's secret phrases aloud: “inner landscape.”

According to the Master Priest, all people had landscapes within them that reflected their inner nature. Such private landscapes were part of the
abanya
, the vast etheric lands that existed, unseen by most, alongside the physical realm. People visited the abanya during sleep, but lived out their lives without consciously glimpsing its reality.

Part of Kiran's training for paired prophecy involved learning not only to perceive the abanya but
to walk within it consciously. To do so, he had developed a strong and focused
dream body
. Renchald taught that just as everyone had an inner landscape, everyone had a dream body, but most were not aware of its movements (beyond remembering fragments of nightly dreams) and had no control over where it traveled. Gifted prophets used the dream body to journey to other places and times, but very few were trained to move freely through the abanya at will.

Kiran had learned how. He knew he could enter Bryn's inner landscape, but it would be unethical to do so without her permission.

“The curse would be different from the rest of your mind, I mean,” he said hurriedly. “It might try to appear as if it belonged there, but it would seem out of place somehow, like a desert plant growing beside this pond.”

She looked down. “It's just that there are things in my mind I don't want you to see.”

Kiran thought he understood. “Would it help if I gave you one of my own secrets to keep?”

She jumped up so quickly that Jack got in her way, and she tripped over him, nearly falling. “I don't want a secret from you to be like a bargain,” she said. Her feathery eyebrows lowered. “Thank you. But no, I don't want you to link with my mind.” She began walking fast toward the Temple.

Kiran didn't go after her. “Hmmm,” he murmured to Jack when she was out of sight. The dog looked at him reproachfully. “Oh,
you
would have known what to
say,” Kiran said, answering the look. “Humans are complicated, Jack.” The dog whined.

“Renchald would know what to do about the curse,” Kiran said softly. “But I won't ask him. I think he knows what happened to Bryn. He's done nothing to help her. He's elevated Clea instead.” Kiran looked at the sun's fading rays sinking their light into the pond. “And now, our Master Priest has Clea's curses at his command.”

On the fall equinox that year, the acolytes of the Temple were granted a day of freedom. If they wished, they could go to the Harvest Festival held in Amarkand City. There would be no festival in the Temple.

Kiran swung a staff in a wide arc. It felt good to be outside the towering Temple wall, walking through stubbled fields with Brock and Jack. They were taking the shortcut cross-country and would meet the main road farther on.

Jack took off at a run, chasing a gray rabbit. Kiran's staff whistled as he swung it again.

“Easy, Mox,” Brock said, taking a step to the side, trampling barley stubble.

Kiran grunted. “Have confidence, Owl-face. I may be thickheaded when it comes to math, but sticks I understand.”

“It's not your thick head that daunts my confidence,” Brock answered. “It's the thick arms that do its bidding. I wouldn't want to be on the wrong end of that stick.”

“It's never
your
head I imagine hitting.”

“I'm comforted.” Brock high-stepped over more stubble. “Whose head, then?”

Kiran looked sideways at his friend. He frowned. “Clea's.”

Brock chuckled. “Why does she trail you like a buzzard after blood, when you'd like to see her head on a stick?”

Kiran slashed at a dry barley stalk. “Like a buzzard after blood” was all too apt a description. Each time he paired with Clea, he could feel her seeking chinks in his inner barriers, trying to get more from him than he wanted to give.

And though he'd hoped to help Bryn, Bryn wouldn't let him help her.

Brock pointed ahead. “Trouble.”

They were approaching a stand of trees, and Gridley Laversham was leading a band of Wings out of the woods: Lambert, Haig, Everett, Leonard, and Fulton. All were sons of lords. Each carried a sturdy-looking cudgel.

Looking around quickly for Jack, who was nowhere in sight, Kiran planted his staff. “I advise you to run,” he told Brock. On a different day and in a different mood, he might have been willing to turn around and avoid a fight. But not today.

Brock folded his arms. “I stand with you, Mox.”

Gridley and his followers stopped when they were a few feet away, forming a ragged line.

“Is there something you want?” Kiran said, his deep voice rough with anger.

The peacock-chosen young man smiled nastily. “Don't want much,” he said, enunciating his words. “Something so simple even you should be able to understand it. Stay away from Clea. She's spoken for.”

Kiran gripped his staff harder. “Why not ask her to stay away from me?”

Lambert snickered. Gridley scowled, his finely chiseled features scrunching together. “What would she see in an animal like you?”

“She has no taste,” Kiran said.

The other Wings moved to surround him and Brock.
Jack. Where are you?

Gridley's face flushed. He slipped a hand inside his silk shirt.

Kiran lifted his staff. He thumped it against Gridley's chest. “ You wouldn't be reaching for a peacock feather, would you?”

All the students had been repeatedly told that it was rare for acolytes or handmaids to be able to use their secret gifts before they went through the formal initiation to the priesthood. But Kiran knew that just as he himself could speak to animals without being a priest, other acolytes, including Gridley, might have active gifts. It would be stupid to assume that the leader of the Wings could not use whatever gift the peacock had given him. If he couldn't, why would he reach for his feather? Kiran had no intention of allowing an unknown gift to be brought against him in a fight.

Gridley grabbed Kiran's staff with both hands, pushing back. Just then Lambert, cudgel held like a
sword, rushed at Brock, who ducked aside but wasn't able to avoid a glancing blow off his shoulder.

Kiran yanked his staff away from Gridley's grasp and swung it, hitting Lambert's arm. The dull
thwack
sounded very loud. Lambert dropped his cudgel and jumped back, rubbing his arm and groaning.

Gridley roared. Haig rushed forward, cudgel raised in both hands. Leaping, Kiran drove his staff into Haig's stomach. Haig doubled over, retching. Gridley scrabbled to open the feather case he'd succeeded in pulling from under his shirt. Everett and Leonard stood in front of him, swinging their cudgels.

Kiran jabbed Everett in the chest with the end of his staff. Everett tumbled back. Kiran barely had time to switch his stance before his staff met Leonard's cudgel with bone-jarring force. “Behind you!” he heard Brock yell as a blow hit his back.

Kiran whirled, swinging blindly. His staff struck Fulton on the knee. Yelping, Fulton hopped backward and then fell. Brock was on the ground, his lip bleeding. He scrambled to his feet, motioning frantically for Kiran to turn around.

Kiran did so just in time to jump aside as Leonard charged him. Leonard crashed into Brock and both fell.