Oracle's Fire

by Mary Victoria

  Oren bowed his head in silent acquiescence, alerted at that moment to the sound of distant throbbing in the sky. An air-chariot was approaching the Freehold. Was Noni back already? He scrambled to his feet with a whispered word to Ara and Mata, bid a polite farewell to the judges, and turned to leave the room. As he hastened away, the man from Marak looked up and caught his eye, flashing him a rueful half-smile, as if to apologise for being the bearer of bad news.

  Noni stared out of the round windows of the Dev as the new machine descended over the northern Freehold, spiralling down towards the bare, up-thrust crest of the docking limb. Even from this height, she could see her brother waiting below on the crest of the branch in the watery afternoon light, his long Farhang cloak wrapped about his ears. Oren had not brought Ara or Mata with him to welcome her home, which meant that he was anxious, and wished to speak with her alone. Noni could guess at some of the subjects preoccupying him. She hunched her shoulders as she sat by the window, dreading the inevitable conversation about Tymon.

  Beside her, the eight Saffid workers crammed into the passenger section of the air-chariot whooped and cheered at the sight of the Freehold buildings half-hidden in the twig-thickets. It seemed unbelievable that they had been marching through the South Canopy only two days before. After bidding farewell to Tymon and Zero, she and the mineworkers who were well enough to walk had journeyed north along the many interconnecting ledges in the trunk-face, making for the bulging outcrop of the Spur of Sails. Those who were ill or weary had accompanied them in the Dev. The weather had remained fine, and it had been a pleasant enough trip, scrambling through the trailing vines and beds of moss that colonised the Tree at this point. They had walked with the cloudy expanse of the Gap to their right, exposed against the face of the Tree the whole time; luckily, the only visitors approaching from above happened to be friends. The three other Freehold pilots had spotted them long before they reached their destination of the Spur, picking them up after only one day of travel.

  They had made the Gap-crossing in good time and good weather, travelling together in the air-chariots. Noni had found herself regretting the luxurious, leafy regions they left behind as they set out for Farhang, but her Saffid companions seemed eager enough to be done with the South Canopy, and the memories it contained. They had cheered when they first sighted the arid branches of their home, and cheered again the next day, with undiminished enthusiasm, when they arrived in the northern Freehold. She wondered privately what advantages they thought they could look forward to. Although they were no longer slaves, they would still live under the threat of permanent war, their so-called curse affecting them in spite of their fervent beliefs. It was a depressing thought, and she pushed it aside, fixing her gaze on her brother standing on the branch below. Perhaps Oren would have some advice for the Saffid.

  The air-chariots made the descent one at a time, alighting on different sections of the horizontal limb. All the machines were of a new design developed by the Farhang engineers; they were more stable and less likely to be buffeted by wind, but required a slightly longer docking strip as a result. Oren stayed well out of the way as the Dev rolled to a halt on its creaking wooden wheels. As soon as the machine had stopped, he hurried eagerly forward, reaching the hatch even as it opened.

  ‘Where is he?’ he burst out to Noni as she emerged. ‘Where is Tymon?’

  She did not immediately respond, but searched her brother’s strained face for some sign of greeting. It was not there. The workers stepping out of the machine behind her bowed respectfully to Oren, but he only half-bowed back, distracted.

  ‘Where is Tymon?’ he repeated impatiently, as his sister stretched her cramped joints after the long flight. ‘I haven’t been able to See him for days!’

  ‘He went back into the mine,’ she finally replied with deep reluctance.

  Oren blanched. ‘Why?’

  ‘He insisted,’ she shrugged uncomfortably. ‘He said he Saw the Kion.’

  ‘He Saw nothing of the kind!’ cried Oren. ‘I don’t know what was in the mine, but it wasn’t the Kion!’

  Noni’s spirits sank. Her brother was almost beside himself: she had rarely seen him so upset. They were communicating in the Sheb dialect, their native tongue, which Oren spoke more easily than either Argosian or the patois current in the northern Freeholds. The pilots from Farhang did not understand what they said, but the Saffid workers did. They politely ignored Oren and Noni, standing in a tight knot to one side of the air-chariot, having perhaps learned from experience with the Oracle that the affairs of Grafters were best left to Grafters. Oren did not take the time to welcome them to their new home, as he would normally have done, but tugged Noni up the path that followed the crest of the limb.

  ‘I tried to warn him,’ she told her brother, when they were out of earshot of the others. ‘He wouldn’t believe me.’

  ‘A warning is not enough!’ Oren admonished her sharply. ‘You should have stopped him.’

  ‘How was I to do that?’ she asked. She felt overwhelmingly tired, and wished only to find her tent and lie down, though she knew she would have to give her report to Gardan first. ‘He’s a grown man, Oren. He makes his own decisions.’

  ‘You could have told him it was a trick of the Masters.’

  ‘Are you sure it is? He’s had visions of her before that could have been real — the one at Hayman’s Point, for example.’

  ‘There’s something very wrong happening.’ Oren knit his brows unhappily. ‘First Pallas, then Ama, now this! Why else wouldn’t I See Tymon, Noni? Think about it. Maybe it isn’t a trick, but the fact that he’s gone down into those tunnels is playing directly into our enemies’ hands. He’s not with us, and without him we haven’t a chance. You could have lied, Noni!’ he concluded in despair. ‘Anything to get him back here.’

  ‘I seem to remember having this conversation with you before he set out for Argos,’ she retorted, somewhat tight-lipped. ‘Then, you told me it was important he made his own decisions.’

  ‘This isn’t the same!’ said Oren, seething with frustration at her side. ‘Apart from the mess this leaves us in, he’s heading into a trap, I can feel it! We won’t be able to help him. We won’t even know if he’s dead or alive.’

  She stopped on the path, exasperated in her turn. ‘What would you have me do? When I wish to act, you persuade me to wait. Now that I wait, you prefer me to act. Tell me, brother, how may I please you?’

  He looked away from her then, stung. ‘The Oracle’s gone,’ he muttered. ‘Our Fifth, the one remaining link to her, has been taken from us too. If you appreciated the danger, you’d realise this has nothing to do with pleasing me. Our enemies are attacking on two fronts, just like Ama warned. This time, it won’t just be dirigibles and armies, though we’ll have that to look forward to as well. The Masters are holding our very souls to ransom, Noni.’

  He turned to go, but after a few steps faced her again, his mouth twitching with emotion. ‘I’m not sure what we’re going to tell Galliano,’ he said. ‘He’s been waiting for Tymon’s arrival ever since you left: he’s going to be devastated.’

  And with that, he strode away up the path to the village, leaving her to follow behind, slow and heavy of heart.

  He did not join her in the meeting hall for her report to the judges, or hear her being commended for the rescue of the mineworkers. The Freehold leaders also brought her up to date with news of the Saint’s crusade, which Oren had not mentioned when he met her on the docking branch. The omission did not surprise her. The loss of the Oracle and Tymon’s disastrous abandonment of them would be a far more serious concern to her brother than the arrival of enemy ships. For their part, the judges reacted with some disappointment to the news of Tymon’s departure, but no real surprise. They had grown used to the young Argosian’s headstrong ways, Noni realised sadly, and had already dismissed him from their minds as someone who could not be relied on.

  As Gardan and the others did not ask her to stay on durin
g subsequent discussions about the housing and employment of the Saffid, and indeed appeared as eager to be rid of her as Oren was, she returned, dispirited, to the tent she shared with her brother in the refugees’ quarter. Many of the temporary dwellings in the camp, including their own, had by now been converted to semi-permanent constructions, built on high platforms. The twenty Saffid from the mine were just the latest addition to the throng; following the rumours of marauding Argosian soldiers to the west and Lantrian pirates to the south, more refugees from the surrounding area were arriving day by day. But there would be little respite for them on the Freehold. All about her in the camp, Noni could see signs of travel preparations as the young families, the old and the infirm readied themselves for yet another upheaval, yet another evacuation. They would leave the following day, marching deep into the tangled twig-thickets east of the Freehold to wait out the attack.

  Oren was not in the tent when she arrived. Noni washed herself sparingly with water from the rain-cistern and lay down on her sleeping mat to rest. After a few minutes, she heard her brother entering through the door-flap. Although she had her face turned to the canvas wall, she could hear, simply from the way he walked, that he was no longer angry.

  ‘Sister,’ he whispered, kneeling down beside her on the mat. ‘I apologise for my words. You are not Tymon’s keeper.’

  She rolled over and took his hand, squeezing it. ‘You’re right to be worried,’ she said. ‘Without our Fifth, what hope have we of bringing the fledgling Grafters to safety? What hope have we of combating the Envoy?’

  ‘None.’ Her brother seemed utterly crestfallen, she thought, more sad than she had ever seen him, including in the Marak jail. ‘Actually, there was little hope even with Tymon,’ he sighed. ‘The Reading visions have been pretty plain about that since you left and Grafter tradition backs them up. The Saint has begun his Last Crusade. There will be attack after attack, and the Freeholds will be wiped out. We can’t withstand the Envoy — not alone, not without the Oracle.’

  Noni gazed at him in dismay. ‘You’ve told the judges this?’

  ‘We told them this morning. They were grateful for information about the attack, but didn’t seem in a hurry to believe the rest. Honestly, Non, sometimes I wish Caro hadn’t left us. At least when he was around, the judges opposed to his faction actually listened to us. Now no one does.’

  ‘That’s just nostalgia,’ she said dryly. ‘Only Laska ever listened to us. I’m glad Caro’s gone: it lances the sore. What are the judges going to do?’

  ‘They’ve already sent scouts with messages to Majad and Tuman — I expect the United Fleet will be assembled in two days. They’re keeping the rest a secret, to maintain morale, they say. Really, they’ve just invested too much in our defence to believe it’s hopeless.’

  ‘We can’t go on like this,’ exclaimed Noni, letting go of his hand and sitting up on the mat. ‘We have to do something. Ama is relying on us to protect these people. We’re failing them.’

  ‘That’s what I came here to talk to you about,’ he said slowly. ‘It may be time to start thinking of training another Fifth. I know,’ he continued, as his sister winced with distaste. ‘It’s a terrible wrench. We’re twined with Tymon, and we’ll have to cut him loose. This shouldn’t have to happen, but it sometimes does. Ishi from the north holdings might be a good replacement, and he’s young enough to leave with us if we evacuate. We should consult with Ara and Mata, anyway.’

  ‘What about the Oracle? She always praised Tymon, however much trouble he was. He was our last link to her. What if by cutting loose from him, we lose her for good, as well?’

  Oren’s face fell, as if that particular question distressed him most. ‘Then we’ll follow her directives and keep the spirit of her work alive, as we do for the Kion,’ he replied with some difficulty. ‘To try to help her in the Veil, or go on some foolish search for her body, would only take us away from those who need us most. Our mandate is to defend the defenceless. We won’t let ourselves be distracted from doing that. It would be just what our enemies wish for.’

  As he spoke, the door-flap opened and Ara and Mata entered the tent. The twins smiled in relief when they set eyes on Noni, quickly bending down to embrace her.

  ‘It’s good,’ began Ara.

  ‘To have the family together again,’ finished Mata as they settled themselves on the floor in their usual circle.

  There was a pause. Although nobody mentioned Tymon’s name, it echoed in all the Grafters’ minds like a chime. The four young people did not always need to speak aloud when they were together, even outside the trance. They were deeply attuned to one another’s moods, acting as a close-knit, surrogate family. That was indeed an important aspect of the Focal group, for Noni and Oren had lost both parents to illness years ago, while the twins never mentioned theirs, keeping an almost total blank drawn over their origins. The two boys had simply appeared one day in Farhang, out of thin air, attaching themselves to a refugee convoy bound for the village. Such stories were common in the Eastern Domains, and no one pressed them for more information. The Focals, in any case, could never lie to each other; the shared experience of a Reading would not permit it. Ara and Mata did not ask about their absent Fifth, but shared instinctively in Oren and Noni’s concern, their eyes growing round and solemn in the silence. The same questions preoccupied all of them.

  Tymon had always perceived this close connection with his fellow Grafters as an invasion of privacy, and shut himself off from it. Without him, the young Focals felt stunted; with him, they were forever battling to be heard. And now he had disappeared completely, leaving them adrift. There was a decision to be made.

  ‘A new Fifth,’ murmured Mata, after a moment of deliberation.

  ‘I don’t want to,’ said Ara emphatically.

  The Focals’ intimacy did not preclude disagreements. On this occasion, Ara was adamantly opposed to the general sentiments of the group.

  ‘None of us wants to,’ replied Noni. ‘It’s a last resort.’

  ‘It’s a terrible idea.’ Ara set his mouth. Noni and Mata felt his disapproval like a prickling heat and shifted uncomfortably where they sat. Only Oren remained unwavering, cool.

  ‘We needn’t decide this ourselves,’ he suggested. ‘We could ask the Sap.’

  ‘The Sap,’ agreed Mata and Noni in unison.

  ‘The Sap won’t touch this question,’ said Ara. ‘It won’t take the responsibility away from us, and make everything neat. It’s our business, we can’t wiggle out of it. We have to decide on our own. As it should be.’

  ‘Are you sure of that?’ asked Noni. ‘Don’t we run the risk of doing what we want, instead of what we must?’

  Ara did not have to answer: his eyes burned with an unshakable conviction. After a moment the other Grafters nodded.

  ‘Well then, we decide it,’ conceded Oren. ‘What does everyone think?’

  ‘We’re weak without a Fifth,’ said Mata.

  ‘Limited in our scope,’ added Noni.

  ‘If we cut off the Witness,’ argued Ara, ‘we’ll be blinding ourselves further.’

  ‘So,’ said Oren. ‘It’s a choice between blindness and weakness.’

  Outside the tent, evening had fallen and the smell of cooking drifted over the camp. The four young people continued to sit in the gathering twilight, eyes closed or downcast as they considered their situation. They would reach a unanimous decision eventually — they always did. In the meantime, they mulled over this snarl in the fabric of their cohesion, prodding restlessly at it in their minds. A long, silent while passed.

  ‘Weakness,’ murmured Oren eventually, ‘is strength.’ He looked up at his fellows with dawning realisation. ‘I apologise, my friends,’ he said. ‘I’ve been too upset to think clearly. Ara’s right, of course. The cure for a rotting limb may be amputation, but the cure for a broken one is to bind it closer.’

  Noni’s and Mata’s expressions mirrored this complete turnaround. It was not that the
other two Focals lacked personal will, or were easily influenced and swayed. They had simply followed the same silent line of reasoning as Oren, and reached a similar conclusion. The atmosphere of the gathering became more relaxed.

  ‘So, we’ll limp along,’ laughed Noni regretfully, ‘and wait for our broken wing to mend, come Storm or Maelstrom.’

  ‘Maybe we’ll never be whole —’ said Ara

  ‘But at least we won’t be blind,’ finished Mata.

  ‘We should begin training Ishi during the evacuation, all the same, and maybe young Tudah from the farm-hold, too,’ said Oren. ‘We can still teach, even if we aren’t strong —’

  ‘Excuse me,’ called a voice from the entrance to the tent, cutting him short. ‘May I come in?’

  The Focals glanced up in surprise, as yet another visitor stepped through the door-flap, and Halas stood blinking in the gloom of the tent.

  ‘I was told I could find Oren the Grafter here. Is that correct?’ he asked.

  Noni, who had not met the messenger from Marak that morning, stared in astonishment at the newcomer still dressed in his dusty travel clothes, carrying a worn and patched backpack. The others smiled and waved him in. During the meeting with the judges, he had spoken in his heavily accented Argosian. Now, he used the Grafters’ own lilting, decorous brand of Nurian, and the change was striking to those who had heard him before.

  ‘I wished to speak with you in the hall, but you left too quickly,’ he told Oren with a weary grin. ‘Afterwards, Gardan had me visiting every blessed judge who didn’t make it to the meeting. It took all day, but I can finally make my delivery. I was supposed to give this to you, and only you.’

  ‘Delivery?’ echoed Oren, rising politely as the messenger retrieved a neat bundle of paper from his pack. Ara and Mata stirred restlessly where they sat, craning their necks to see what he held.

  ‘There’s a peculiar story connected with these papers,’ continued Halas, passing the sheaf to Oren. ‘By the way, I’m an old acquaintance of Judge Laska’s, an undercover agent in the Domains, if you like. You don’t know me, but I know you. I’ve been on a mission out east for the past three months — curse those bastards in Cherk for killing the best captain that ever was.’