Oracle of Delphi

by James Gurley

  They ate a quick meal, and as his uncle bargained for return goods, Tad took a dip in the sea, relishing the feel of the warm salty water and pale coral sand under his bare feet. His morning’s excursions across the city had exhausted him. He took a short nap on the shore to renew his energy, listening to the gentle lapping of the waves at his feet. When he awoke, Second Sun was casting a brilliant blue-green haze at the world’s end. Its reflection seemed to lift skyward from the water to meet the sun. The suddenly still sea sparkled with millions of scintillating lights that danced a mesmerizing jig and dazzled his eyes.

  As he shaded his eyes with his hands, he saw a great creature heave itself from the waters many leagues out to sea. It rose effortlessly from the water, stood on a broad flat tail, and belched sound and water. It hung suspended, defying gravity for many long seconds before crashing back into the sea amid a great splash. As the waves spread out, the bellow of the creature reached the shore, a low plaintive cry that reverberated deep in Tad’s chest.

  “A Leviathan,” a nearby man said. Tad turned to see a man standing watching in awe. He turned to Tad with a broad smile. “Marvelous creatures, aren’t they?”

  “Yes. I’ve never seen a creature so large.”

  The man chuckled. “That was a small one, less than a hundred meters. I have seen them as large as five hundred meters. Their waves as they breech the surface will almost swamp a schooner.”

  Tad peered at the man more closely. His skin was a bronze hue and his long black locks curled across his shoulders. His hands were large and calloused. Colorful tattoos of mythological creatures decorated both arms, disappearing beneath a short-sleeved crimson robe. Tad recognized them from ancient books as the twelve signs of the Zodiac, Sol constellations that had once had some mystical meaning. A large silver hoop dangled from his left earlobe. His black pants and shirt were of a shimmering material.

  “Are you a sailor?” he asked.

  The man’s smile widened. “Of a sort. I am an explorer. I have been to Lyramar and Valastaria beyond the sea, all the outlying islands of Churum and the ice-bound northern coast of Kamala where the Leviathan feed. I have seen the Rocks of Grantoon rising from the south sea like humps of some great sea beast frozen in stone. I’ve trod the burning, singing sands of the Gray Deserts of Candor and listened to their haunting songs and tasted the frozen water of the Falls of Malin.” He looked at Tad and laughed. “I’ve even danced with the Fire Imps in the mouth of the Valberg Volcano.”

  Half the names the man mentioned were myths, legends from the past, spoken in whispers by older boys or young men when boasting. A few were dots and squiggles on maps from before the Veil. None but the outlying islands and the eastern continent of Valastaria were destinations of ships from the port of Delphi.

  “You jest, surely,” Tad responded. “These places are tales told to children—where witches and golems live—myths designed to frighten.”

  The man nodded. “Frightful, yes, but not myths. I have seen them, spoken to the peoples there. Some are like you and me, some more . . . bestial. We are not alone on Charybdis. Other refugees from the Veil fled the wars here and do not mingle with the eight known races. Perhaps some were even birthed by the mystical forces of the Veil itself, for no such creatures ever walked here before the End of Times.”

  Tad did not know what to believe. It seemed that the man believed his own tall tales, or else had told them so often they seemed real to him.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  The man thought for a moment, as if remembering. “Kerrigan, yes that’s it. McKay Kerrigan, at your service, late of the Prince of Palapossa’s navy.” He shook his head. “It’s been so long since anyone’s asked. Most call me Sea Hawk.”

  Tad’s jaw dropped and his mouth opened. He stood gawking at his new companion. Sea Hawk was a legend. He had won wars and killed monsters single-handedly. He had sat beside Pashas and Kings and offered advice on military matters, as well as scientific, political and arcane topics. He traveled the Great Sea on the backs of dolphins and sea turtles.

  “Sea Hawk,” Tad whispered in awe.

  The legendary Sea Hawk looked into Tad’s eyes and some of the swaggering faded from his manner. He leaned closer. “Don’t believe half of what you hear and none of what I say. I tell tall tales for drinks in taverns and for bowls of soup in filthy alleyways behind restaurants. I’m my own best agent, for if people believe a whit about what I boast, I seem a rogue and gentleman to them far surpassing their mundane lives.”

  “But you’re Sea Hawk,” Tad repeated, as if that was enough explanation.

  “Aye, I am and a liar by trade, but I find it hard to lie to you. Perhaps it is your innocence.” He shrugged. “And you are who?”

  “Tad de Silva.”

  “De Silva, you say? I’ve heard of you, young man.”

  Tad was bewildered. “Has everyone in Delphi heard of me? How?”

  Sea Hawk smiled. “Oh, I know all sorts of people and hear all sorts of things. Does your grandfather still live?” He shook his head. “No, I suppose not. That was many years ago and he was old then.”

  Tad was surprised that Sea Hawk knew his grandfather. “He died when I was young. Did you know him well?”’

  “Well enough. We had a few adventures together.”

  Why had his father never mentioned this to him? “Why are you here?”

  “As Corycia sets each day, I watch the shadows cover the sea and I wish I was back among them. At night, the stars above the sea rain down on you like droplets of fire, so bright you can read by them. You have to hold onto the rail to keep them from sucking you up into the night sky. It’s safer to gaze at them through their reflection on a calm sea, like through a looking glass.”

  His face screwed up, as if remembering a sudden pain. “They’re disappearing again,” he said quietly.

  “What are?”

  When he looked at Tad, Sea Hawk’s eyes were ablaze with red fire. “The stars. The stars are disappearing. It is difficult to tell from here, but further east out to sea where the clouds refuse to venture you can see the holes, large gaps, black eyes that once sparkled with life. That is why I have came back to Delphi, to tell them that need to know such things; that and to rest my weary bones. I have been gone since the first year of King Kalman’s reign. I need to feel familiar stone beneath by boots for a while.”

  Tad was aghast. King Kalman, Karal’s father, had ruled for seventy years and Karal under the Regents for five. That would make Sea Hawk over eightyTerran years old and he looked no more than forty.

  “Impossible,” Tad burst out.

  Sea Hawk shook his head. “I feel every year of it, lad, when on shore. There are places out there where the Veil struck hard, leaving living shadows in the land. Time works funny there. You can ride for days before any of the triple suns set. Other times, you can hardly blink before the day is gone and night’s upon you. It takes its toll.”

  If he is a madman, he seems oddly sane other than his wild claims, Tad thought. “You should speak to the Plin about it.”

  His head snapped around. “What do you know of the Plin?” he demanded.

  “My uncle knows one, Askos. I’ve met him.”

  Sea Hawk nodded as if satisfied with his explanation. “Askos. A good man.”

  Sea Hawk’s manner made Tad nervous. He glanced toward the Caravan. “I must help my uncle now. There is still packing to do.”

  “You won’t leave with the Caravan?”

  Tad hesitated, but something in Sea Hawk engendered trust. “No, I may work for the Plin as a Watcher’s assistant.”

  Sea Hawk’s eyes lit up and he smiled. “Good lad. Stay with the Plin. Learn from them. They know much. When the time comes, believe them.”

  He turned and, whistling a strangely melancholy tune, began to wander down the beach, disappearing around a row of upturned fishing boats. His tune seemed to hang suspended on the wind for minutes after he was gone. Tad listened until the breeze tattered th
e echo of the tune, and then walked back to the Caravan.

  Third Sunrise, Cleodora’s second rising a few hours after dusk, with its pale cyanic light, brought more Delphinians to the harbor for trade, but most simply came to sit and pass the time. Tad searched for Sira. Her father informed him that she was at the Academy taking tests. He wandered the camp alone, half listening to the songs and stories, remembering his home in Casson. He hoped that he was making the right decision. He had no great love for farming, though he had diligently helped his uncle, as he knew he should. He had heard of Delphi and the world outside Casson all his life and had yearned to see it for himself. Now that he was there, the city’s size and grandeur overwhelmed him. Sea Hawk’s tales frightened him. How could he, a farm boy, make his mark on the city?

  That night, he fell asleep dreaming of the possibilities.

  4

  THE WATCHERS' TOWER

  THEIR GOODS SOLD IN THE MARKET, THE NEXT MORNING Tad helped his uncle gather supplies he would need back on the farm. The grain had brought a good price, as had the fruit, vegetables and cloth, and his uncle was in a superb mood. He held up two bolts of cloth, one a red fabric that glistened like a spider’s web in the sun and the other sky blue in color with white checks.

  “I have bought a surprise for your aunt,” he announced.

  “Why buy cloth, Uncle?” Tad asked. “The weavers back home make a fine cloth.”

  His uncle gently caressed the soft red fabric with his rough hand. “Silk, from the islands to the east, woven from the cocoons of small caterpillars. The blue-checkered material is linen made from flax, more durable, good for tablecloths and quilting. And here I thought flax was good only for the grain.” He held out a gossamer piece of cloth almost invisible except for a slight shimmer. “Ra’az cloth made from a type of kelp. It’s so light I can barely feel it in my hand, yet it is stronger than sailcloth. It repels water so efficiently that it does not get wet, a good thing for the amphibious Ra’az.” He chuckled. “Your Aunt often complains that the small town store carries little in the way of good cloth. She’ll be the envy of the valley wearing dresses of this red silk and a bonnet of Ra’az cloth.”

  Tad could just imagine his aunt in her new red dress walking slowly down the street, stopping at every shop window to allow the other women the opportunity to admire her.

  “She will love it,” he agreed. He reached out to touch the Ra’az cloth. It felt like a cloud. He had heard of the race of amphibious Ra’az living in the shallow waters of the Outer Islands. No one knew their planet of origin, but the highly intelligent Ra’az had adapted well to life in the oceans of Charybdis. Having reverted to a carefree, hunter-gatherer society, they disdained all contact with the other races except for the occasional trade of Ra’az cloth for metal.

  His uncle held out a smaller bag. Tad caught the fragrant aroma of tobacco. “It’s Ceysan tobacco from the south, enough to sell or trade for other goods and still fill my pipe in front of the winter fire.”

  “You did well this trip.”

  “I’ll bring back many things we need, but I leave a son,” his uncle said sadly. “I know you are not my true son of my flesh, but I have enjoyed raising you as mine. My daughter is sister to you as if born of the same mother. She will miss you, too, I suppose.” He sighed.

  Tad thought of his older cousin, Mariam, Wilbreth’s daughter. He would miss her, but she was destined for marriage to a valley lad and a new farm and soon thereafter, children. She would have no time to play games or walk in the forest as they had done so many times in the past.

  “I’ll miss you all,” he said, sniffing back a tear and wiping his eye, trying hard not to blubber like a child. “I’ll write often,” he promised knowing he would not. He was a poor letter writer at best.

  “See that you do,” his uncle admonished, “or your Aunt will send me back to fetch you.”

  “Must you leave so soon?” As eager as he was to experience the adventure of Delphi on his own, he wished his uncle could remain longer, a familiar face in a city of strangers.

  “Aye, tomorrow morning many wagons will pull out for the west—not quite a full Caravan, but it will do. If I wait too long, I’ll have to make the journey alone. We can link up with the Delphinium Guard we met earlier and travel partway under their auspices.”

  Tad knew that it was a dangerous trip. Marauders knew small Caravans or single wagons often brought riches from the city and were easy targets. Just the proximity of the Delphinium Guards would drive them back.

  “I suppose you should,” he said. He smiled. “Tonight, though, we dine at a real restaurant, one with table cloths and candles and waiters in suits.”

  His uncle handed him a small pouch. Tad was astonished at its weight.

  “Here is some money for you until you make some on your own. You earned it these many years.”

  “I cannot,” he protested, handing it back. “It’s too much.”

  His uncle smiled and folded Tad’s hands over the pouch. “Nonsense! By your labor, we traded well here in Delphi. This is but your fair share. You will find that a silver coin does not go as far here as it would in Casson. Besides, you will pay for the meal you so eagerly invited me to enjoy.”

  Tad pocketed the money. Its weight in his pocket felt strange but reassuring. “It’s a deal.” He looked at the sky, judging the positions of Corycia and Cleodora. “It is near mid morning. I must go to the Watchers’ Tower to meet Simios and see if he will accept me as an apprentice.”

  His uncle frowned. “Be careful. The Plin are good people and Askos is my friend, but they are strange folk. The other night … the fire globe in your hand—that was odd. Askos seemed amazed but somewhat perturbed by your ability.”

  “As was I,” Tad reminded him. He had never known his uncle to be hesitant with his words. He had always been outspoken and direct with his young nephew.

  “I feel that there is something, ah, unique about you: your ability to do math with large numbers in your head, almost like the Shura; the way you can see things in an object that others do not; your magic, even your ability to see the truth of a person’s words. It has helped me often in dealing with buyers and workers. I think you are destined for great things as Askos said. Be wary. Be humble among others, but be proud of who you are.” He laid a hand on Tad’s shoulder. “Go now. I’ll see you tonight.” As Tad walked off, his uncle added. “And buy a chronometer for your pocket so you will be on time. A gentleman is always on time.”

  The Watchers’ Tower was almost as imposing as the Black Tower, not as tall or as grand but more delicate, as if blown from azure glass by a master glassmaker. A frosted glass dome fifty meters across rested atop a slim spindle of glass and steel nearly twenty stories high. Twin slender buttresses of pale green glass sprouted from the ground and wound around the spindle like twisted trunks of tress. At its narrowest point, the stone spindle was a mere five meters in diameter.

  Tad was dreading the long climb up the spindle when, much to his delight, an attendant dressed in black and silver opened a door in the spindle and ushered him into a cylindrical cage of glass and steel. He then closed the door, leaving Tad alone in darkness. An electric light flashed on, bathing him with its soft white luminescence. Tad held his hand close to the light source, but felt no heat. How strange, a cold light. With a quick jerk, the cylinder began to rise.

  A lift, he thought with delight. He had heard of their existence, but had never seen one. He felt a quick sense of vertigo, but his careful examination of the steel skeleton of the spindle through the steel mesh of the cylinder replaced the sensation with a sense of wonder. He could detect no rivets or joints. It was as if some arcane power had coaxed the steel members to meld smoothly. He hoped that the Black Tower had such a contrivance as a lift for the sake of the men and women who must ascend its ponderous height.

  With a second jolt, the cylinder stopped and the door slid open. He entered a large room filled with colorful crystal globes on stone pedestals. Each pulsa
ted slowly with a wan light, projecting swaths of colorful illumination, almost hypnotic as he watched the movement across the room. Majestic tapestries depicting all the races of Charybdis lined one wall, some of which he did not recognize. Dozens of writing desks clustered together dominated the center of the room. Several older Plin wearing black robes with a series of white bands on their sleeves occupied some of the desks. One looked up and motioned him over impatiently.

  “You are young Tad de Silva?” he asked. The Plin was as tall as Tad, slightly heavier around the waist and had the same deep blue eyes as Askos, but he spoke with no accent. The man’s eyes drilled into Tad as he spoke, freezing Tad’s voice box. He summoned his strength and nodded. The Plin looked away and rummaged under his desk. He withdrew a tablet of paper and a long wooden stylus. “Can you write?”

  Away from the Plin’s gaze, Tad found his voice. “Yes.”

  The Plin nodded. “Good. Take this stylus and tablet and tell me a story.”

  Tad was confused. “A story?”

  “Yes. Any childhood tale will do—a fairy tale, your journey here, even a tale about your own youth. It does not matter.”

  “But I came for a job with Simios,” he protested.

  The man nodded curtly. “So Askos informed me. I am Simios.”

  Tad’s mouth worked, but no words came. Simios smiled.

  “The writing will tell me how your mind works. The way you form your letters will tell me your character.” He looked at Tad. All traces of humor had vanished. “Your subject will determine whether I take you on as an apprentice Watcher.”

  Tad swallowed hard. “Yes, Sir.” Beads of perspiration broke out on his forehead though the room was quite cool. He took the tablet and stylus and found an empty desk. The seat was hard and uncomfortable, as if designed for a slightly different anatomy than Terran.

  What to write, he thought. What to write? The pressure made his mind skip about and refuse to focus. Finally, he decided to write about himself. He began with his birth and what little he could remember of his mother and father, both dead by his fifth year, how she had held him and whispered to him as she held him in her arms. He remembered her gazing down upon him with love that shone in her forest green eyes, the beat of her heart against his chest. He recalled his father sitting him on his knee and regaling him with tales of their family history. He could remember little of the actual history, but the words had been bold, soothing and stirring even then, imprinting his young heart with pride and joy. These were true memories, not memories instilled by stories from his aunt and uncle. He intended to describe life on the farm with his uncle and aunt, but his thoughts wandered to questions he wished answered, dreams he wanted to fulfill. He found the words flowing easily as his emotions poured upon the paper with cursive scribbles and crossed T’s of ink. Tears flowed. He wiped them back with a quick brush of his hand. Soon, his hand began to cramp and he noticed that he had written five pages. He looked up at Simios staring intently at him, decided he had done the best he could, and offered the results to the Plin for judgment.