The Light of the Oracle (6 page)

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.

“ Yes.” He bowed to her, one arm tucked behind his back, raising a foot as he straightened, putting the foot down gently while lifting both arms up. He finished with one hand pointing to himself and one to her. “Welcome to the stables, Bryn. May we both be wiser than manure and not step in it too often.”

Kiran met Renchald's opaque gaze, trying not to show how uncomfortable he felt in the Master Priest's sanctum. From the wall, a tapestry of a gyrfalcon glared at him. To his left, on a pedestal, stood a heavy statue of a vulture wrought in black marble.
Temple of the Oracle, where the bird of curses is second only to the gods
. Kiran knew that the Temple's vulture-chosen priest had died without a replacement.
Who will perform the Master Priest's curses now?
he thought grimly.

Renchald did not invite him to sit. Instead, the Master Priest sat unmoving, his green eyes boring into Kiran's. When at last he spoke, he wasted no time on pleasantries. “Alamar showed me the bow you performed today,” he said. “Ironic, isn't it, Kiran, that you would use what you learned from him to insult him as a teacher?”

Kiran didn't answer.

“If you had a grain of wisdom,” the Master Priest went on, “ you would know that unspoken words are even more important than words said aloud.”

Kiran folded his arms.

“Protocol can be a siege or a sanctuary, a weapon or a peace offering, depending upon how you use it.” Renchald's voice became louder, yet he didn't change expression. “The role you've been playing—that of un-teachable oaf—cannot continue. I didn't take you from the slums of the Eastland to allow you to flout the customs of the Temple. Don't forget, I can easily drop you back in the gutter where I found you.”

Kiran's fingers curled within his palms, tension spreading from his arms into his back and down his legs.

The slums of the Eastland.
Why did it bother him to hear such words? They were true. When the Master Priest had discovered him at the age of twelve, he
had
been living in the slums. With his father, Eston, a man overly fond of whisky. Kiran had too many memories of his father—unable to stand, being kicked aside by lords who might have given him a place training fine horses if he had only been sober.

Eston had eagerly accepted Renchald's offer to take Kiran off his hands. Kiran's beloved mother had died years earlier in a riding accident, so there was no one else to consult.

“To atone for your disrespect,” continued the Master Priest, “ you will make a bow of perfect apology to Alamar during every protocol class until he releases you from the punishment.”

It doesn't matter
, Kiran told himself, squeezing his fists behind his back.
It's only a gesture. Means nothing to me.

He bowed, and the red threads of the carpet matched the color of his anger.

Alessandra, Queen of Sorana, and Princess Zorienne, heir to the throne, arrived at the Temple of the Oracle and were installed in a sumptuous suite of rooms in the guest wing. During the previous weeks the senior handmaids and acolytes had been cleaning and trimming and cooking in a frenzied bustle of preparation.

Not only for the queen. Another suite had been made ready for Lord Bartol Errington and his son, Raynor, a remarkably handsome youth eighteen years old.

“Why has the queen come here?” Bryn asked Kiran as they filled feed buckets.

She couldn't quite read the look he gave her; it almost appeared that he pitied her. “Prophecies,” he said. He put a hand on her shoulder. Bryn was so distracted by his warmth she had trouble listening to his words. “You know the Princess Zorienne is ill?” he asked.

“I heard the rumor, yes.”

Kiran took his hand away. “Perhaps the queen hopes to learn of a cure for her daughter.”

Bryn shook oat flakes into a bucket. “Dawn says that if Princess Zorienne dies, the succession will pass to Raynor Errington.” She looked up to see him nod. “I don't understand why. Even Clea only claims to be a
distant
cousin to the queen.”

“True. No close cousins, though, you see.”

How did he know? “Why wouldn't Lord Errington be the king, then?”

Kiran shrugged. “Errington enjoys the position he has now, ruling over the Eastland. He stepped aside in favor of his son.”

“So Clea's brother could become King of all Sorana?” A shudder passed over Bryn, causing some oats to pour onto the floor.

Kiran helped her scoop them up. She could feel his breath on her neck. “ Yes, and the gods help us all if that should happen.”

She would have asked him a hundred questions, but just then the Sendral of Horses appeared, to discuss caring for the train of mares the queen had brought with her, and their conversation was cut short.

Bryn entered the great room of the Oracle's central altar for the first time, trailing Dawn closely. Every member of the Temple had been ordered to assemble in formal welcome to Queen Alessandra.

The domed ceiling alone took Bryn's breath away, so high it seemed to rival the heavens. It had been plated with gold, its centerpiece a ruby-colored design of stained glass laid in the shape of the keltice. Seven
stained-glass windows reached from the floor midway up the gently sloping walls. Above each window hung a tapestry, intricately woven, depicting the face of a god or goddess.

The detailed weavings were uncanny. Bryn hadn't realized a tapestry could show the chill of Keldes, Lord of Death, so well. The face of Solz, Lord of Light, looked radiant as the sun, the heavenly body he ruled. Opposite Solz, across the vast chamber of the Temple, was Monzapel, Goddess of the Moon, her distant smile cool and silver. Ellerth's tapestry showed the Earth Goddess among flowers that seemed to wave as if a breeze blew upon them. Winjessen, winged Lord of Thought, appeared ready to fly. Ayel, Lord of Battle, lifted a gleaming sword. Beside him, Vernelda, Goddess of Justice and Love, smiled compassionately.

“Stop gawking, rat.” A sharp finger jabbed Bryn's ribs; she turned to catch Clea's spiteful glance. She quickened her pace, following Dawn into one of the tiered rows of pews. To her relief, Clea continued past, all the way down to the front.
Of course. She's descended from King Zor.

The Temple filled with hundreds of people. Everyone continued to stand. There were a few hushed words, quickly swallowed by silence. Bryn gazed at the great altar: a tall, wide slab of pearly marble shaped into an oval. Upon it stood seven large round silver bowls filled with clear water, and seven burning candles set in finely worked silver holders. Each holder was adorned with a silver keltice.

The Master Priest stood on the dais to one side of
the altar, his robes looking as if they'd been sculpted of stone, the gray streak in his hair standing out starkly. Bryn could no longer fathom that this same man had been in a stonecutter's cottage.

On the other side of the altar stood the First Priestess of the Oracle. Her red robe had gold embroidery at the collar and cuffs; nearly as much gold as Renchald wore, and she was close to the same height as the Master Priest. Her skin was a rich olive hue; her face, beneath a stately crown of dark braids, showed a powerful calm.

Then, from a door in the side wall near the altar, the Queen of Sorana emerged. Brocade robes swathed her and she wore a ruby-studded crown. Though not as tall as the First Priestess, she moved with grace and dignity as she came up the steps of the dais alone.

The Master Priest received her with a deep welcoming bow. “The Oracle is pleased that Your Majesty was able to journey safely to the Temple,” he intoned. “We are proud to continue our history of serving rulers with the Oracle's prophecies.”

Queen Alessandra inclined her head. She turned to face the assemblage. “I greet you, my good people.”

And there in that sacred place, before the altar of the Oracle, a spontaneous cheer rose up. Dignified priests and priestesses allowed their affection for Alessandra to burst forth along with that of the youngest handmaids and acolytes. Hundreds of joyful voices united in homage from the people to their beloved queen.

She bowed to them, at which their cheers swelled even more.

The queen extended a hand toward the door left open by the altar. A tall young woman wearing a light, shining crown stepped forth to join her on the dais. “My daughter, Princess Zorienne, here to pay her respects to the Oracle,” Alessandra said, smiling regally.

Zorienne was too pale, her figure too thin, but her eyes were bright, her bow graceful. She too received the adulation of the gathering.

Close on her heels, disdaining to wait for the queen to summon him, strode Raynor Errington, dressed like a prince in gold and purple satin. He bounded up the steps. His father hastened behind him.

Cheers died away almost instantly. Silence fell.

The Master Priest hurried to fill the void. “We are honored by your presence here,” he said, bowing very formally.