Oracle of Delphi

by James Gurley

  “Where is that?”

  Berass smiled as he remembered. “In the Chaska Mountains.”

  The idea of a Plin homeland intrigued Tad. He had thought they lived in Delphi, though he had never bothered to inquire about Plin women. “That’s in the far southern reaches of Churum.”

  Berass seemed to forget about him. He muttered under his breath and hoed vigorously. Then, he stopped. “I had a wife once. What was her name?” He leaned on the hoe and tapped his forehead. “I cannot remember,” he sobbed.

  Having seen none in Delphi, Tad had never given much thought to Plin women, though he knew from Theliolis that he had a mother. Were Plin women Mages and Watchers also or more like his aunt, homemakers and child bearers? He tried once more to question the obviously troubled Berass about the Plin homeland.

  “Is Sang Talash the name of a city or your homeland?” He asked the question he had been afraid to ask Simios. “Are you Terran?”

  Berass stared at the weeds as if seeing them for the first time. “I must remove these weeds before they choke my beans.” He began hoeing.

  Tad looked at the perspiration dripping down the man’s face. He reached for the hoe. “You sit and rest while I weed.”

  Berass released the hoe and smiled. “Thank you. I am very weary.”

  He retreated to a large rock at the edge of the garden and sat down. Tad began to chop down the weeds whose roots seemed intent on clinging to the earth in which they grew. It was backbreaking labor even for a young boy, much less an old man. After a while, he fell into the rhythm of chopping and raking aside the roots to expose them to the withering sun. His troubles seemed to evaporate. A smile found its way to his lips. He glanced at Berass half-dozing on his boulder, his head nodding.

  Finally, he completed the last row. He was soaked with sweat, but he felt good at his accomplishment. He leaned on the hoe exactly as Berass had. The old man had abandoned his home, but his pride still showed in his small patch of vegetables, as his uncle’s did in his farm. He felt a kinship of the soil with Berass.

  “Who are you?”

  Tad turned to find Berass standing beside him, eyeing him curiously.

  “I’m Tad de Silva,” he answered. “We were just talking.”

  “Oh, were we? I forget sometimes.” He looked at his garden. “The weeds? Thank you.”

  Tad smiled. “Can you tell me more about the Waste?”

  Berass ignored him as he examined Tad’s handiwork, gently raking the dirt with his hands. After a few minutes, he realized that Berass had forgotten about him. Tad gave up and returned to Mors Point by the path he had taken. The town was fully awake by the time he reached the main street. Shopkeepers opened doors and set out wares. Hawkers called out musically as they passed by pushing carts of fresh fish, poultry, meat or vegetables. In spite of a light offshore breeze, or perhaps because of it, the street smelled of poorly collected garbage, sewage and the sea, a mishmash of odors that fought for dominance in his nostrils.

  He returned to his tiny second-floor room at the Crow’s Nest, a run-down inn and tavern across from the docks. The inn might once have been picturesque or even charming, but the years had slowly washed away the quaint façade, leaving badly faded clapboard siding and a rusty tin roof. Faded shutters dangled from the sides of windows at awkward angles or appeared to be missing altogether. The roof bowed in the middle like a saddle. Tad’s room, as declined and as lacking in décor as the inn, had once been part of a much larger room, chopped in half to provide more beds. A single narrow bed, a wooden chair, and a table bearing a water pitcher and basin filled the room, making walking about the tiny space difficult. He lay on the uncomfortable bed and gazed out the window at the docks. Small fishing boats were setting out to sea, their nets spread like wings until needed. Smaller skiffs made their rounds of buoys pulling up crab pots, hoping for enough of the dinner plate-sized, multi-legged native crustaceans to make the morning’s work profitable.

  Mors Point was a fishing village as well as seaport. Less than one hundred fifty people lived there, most making their living on or from the sea. When the waves were too rough to venture out, they suffered. When storms pounded the coast, they suffered. When the foreign ships did not come to port, they suffered. Their life was a long series of brutal sufferings punctuated by a handful of good days. The glory days were long past. He wondered how people could thrive in such a hostile environment. In his mind, he longed for days long ago when men plied the stars as easily as the sea, days that might have been more myth than truth but all the more golden for that. Mankind had fallen a long way after the Veil came. The other races did as well. If the eight races of Charybdis shared anything more than their mistrust of one another, it was their misery.

  Tad’s mood darkened as the day grew brighter. The reasons for his voyage, the search for weapons against the Veil’s return, became secondary to his forced exile from the people he loved and missed. He had questions that required answers, but knew he would not find them here in Valastaria, especially not in Mors Point. He wished he could leave for Fridan that very night. He spent equal amounts of time both brooding and planning for his journey. A hand-drawn map provided by Captain Winset was all he had to go by, and it ended abruptly two days’ march past Fridan with the cryptic warning ‘Death Awaits’ scribbled at the edge of the page. Tad had become immune to such warnings. He had faced death three times, four if one counted the Wind Walker storm aboard the Spur. He stared at the map, willing it to reveal its secrets, but no amount of wishing, concentration or Mage incantations provided one whit more information. He would be venturing blindly into an unknown land.

  The day passed slowly with Corycia crawling across the sky. Even Cleodora, the second sun, which rose soon after Corycia and usually raced across the sky to rise and set twice each day, seemed to linger long on the horizon after the sea had finally swallowed Corycia. He had not eaten lunch and his rumbling stomach reminded him of that fact. He arose from his stupor and ventured downstairs to the inn’s tavern. The food was not as good as the Smuggler’s Den, but he did not wish to undertake the long climb to reach it. After greasy sausages and over-cooked roasted potatoes with a pasty, tasteless gravy washed down with a tankard of watered-down ale, he was prepared to head back to his room, when Evie showed up. He had forgotten the dance.

  “Are you going to the dance dressed like that?” she chided, eyeing his wrinkled clothes.

  He knew when to admit defeat. He would never be able to refuse her and a dance might engage his enthusiasm for his journey.

  “A quick wash and I’ll change. I’ll meet you there,” he said.

  She looked at him and pursed her lips in a pout.

  He smiled. “I promise.”

  He washed as quickly as he could in cold water and combed his hair, now much longer, and tied it in a ponytail with a strip of leather. He donned his best pants and tunic, looked at his twisted reflection in a warped mirror in the hallway, and walked to the community hall. He did not need directions. It seemed that the entire town, from infant to ancient, streamed in that direction. A band played lively tunes, if somewhat out of key. No one paid attention to their lack of talent. Indeed, the shouting and pounding of feet sometimes drowned them out entirely. A tub of ale, a table laden with an assortment of delicious-smelling foods (He wished he had waited to eat), and a few corncob-stoppered jugs of homebrew being passed around made for a festive time. He should have realized the townspeople needed an outlet for their less than prosperous lives, and an event like this served to create common bonds, salve old wounds and diffuse future conflicts.

  Evie was waiting by the door with two other girls. He had to admit that she looked nice in her white dress embroidered with delicate yellow flowers and flowing green vines. Her face, scrubbed of the heavy makeup she wore at the tavern, bore a natural rosy-cheeked color that made her appear younger. She looked at him and pursed her lips.

  She grabbed his arm. “There you are. They’re starting the Reel.”

&nb
sp; She swept him into the room and onto the dance floor amid two large circles of twirling couples spinning in opposite directions. After a few rounds, he found that he could keep up with the simple footwork, which consisted mainly of jumping and spinning without knocking down the couple next to or opposite him. The music made up in enthusiasm for what it lacked in harmony. On one round, someone handed him a jug. He took a long swig and quickly felt fire spread down his gullet and into his stomach. The liquor infused his body with warmth and vigor. He was ready to dance all night. He was surprised to see Evie take a swig, but decided she had probably grown up on it.

  As a stranger, he was an event, passed between the eligible bachelorettes like a new toy until he began to enjoy his newfound popularity. He noticed but ignored the uneasy looks of jealousy among the younger men. After all, most of them knew he was leaving tomorrow and would prove no challenge to their romantic intentions.

  During one break in the music, while fetching a mug of ale and a plate of food for Evie, two boys, young men really, came to him and blocked his path. He smiled and tried to step around them, but they did not let him.

  “We don’t like you here taking our women,” one said. The other simply sneered, agreeing.

  “I’ll just dance with Evie then,” he said with a shrug. “I don’t want to cause any trouble.”

  The speaker poked him hard in the chest with his finger. “That ain’t good enough. We heard you been talking to that old geezer on the bluff, the Plin.”

  “Berass? What about it?”

  “He’s a crazy old codger. He’s dangerous. If you and him are friends, then we want you to leave.”

  Perhaps it was the unaccustomed strong liquor he had drunk, or maybe it was simply that he was enjoying himself for the first time in a long while. He looked over at Evie and saw the concern in her eyes. He smiled at her reassuringly before turning his attention to his two adversaries.

  “Perhaps you two should leave me alone. It’s such a nice night. I don’t want to hurt you.”

  They both laughed. One spat on the dirty wooden floor at Tad’s feet. Tad set down his plate and mug of ale on the edge of the table and stood facing them, arms braced at his sides. The talkative one threw the first punch, which Tad easily sidestepped and elbowed the youth in the ribs, eliciting a loud moan. The second young man tried to kick him, but Tad was expecting just such a move and grabbed the man’s foot, flipping him backwards and onto the floor with a loud thud that shook the floor. The first youth recovered and leaped at Tad. Tad met him with a fist to the abdomen, followed by a forearm to the side of the head. He stood back, giving the two time enough to realize that he outclassed them. He did not see a third man pick up a chair and slam it across his back. Stunned by the sudden pain, Tad fell to the floor. Immediately, both youths began to kick him in the side and back. In the distance, he heard Evie’s scream. He lashed out with one leg and caught one of them in the stomach. The blows stopped for a moment, but resumed quickly as another boy joined the pair. He suddenly realized the danger he was in. This was no mere fistfight brought on by jealousy. These people resented him as an outsider. They resented his money, his clothing and his accent. Considering his humble farm upbringing, he almost laughed at the absurdity of the situation, but anger grew in him like a balloon until it reached the bursting point.

  He summoned power, felt it crowd his chest and flow into his arms. Cupping his hands, he expelled the power in a blast that bowled over his assailants. The crowd grew quiet. He rolled over and sat up, daring them to attack again. He stood, bleeding from lip and eyebrow, his ribs bruised, and faced them.

  “Anybody else want to jump on my back?” he challenged.

  One older man stepped forward. “Leave this place now or we’ll …”

  Tad took a step toward him and the man backed off. “I leave tomorrow and good riddance to this dung heap. I’ll leave you to wallow in your misery and condemnation of your own pitiful worthless lives. It is no wonder in Delphi they speak of Valastaria as a wasteland. It is not the land, but the people who are a waste.”

  He turned to leave, but found that three men holding clubs barred his way. One smiled menacingly at him. Tad closed his eyes and was amazed at how easily he touched the power lurking just below the surface, a pool of molten magma seeking an outlet. He stretched out his hands in front of him palms upward and envisioned twin balls of flame. They burst into existence and floated a few centimeters above his palms. There was a collective gasp from the crowd, but the three men did not move. He threw one orb at their feet. It burst and created a line of flames that produced intense heat, but did not scorch the wooden floor. Tad controlled the flames, pushing the men farther back and away from the door so that he might leave.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the glint of a weapon—a knife or pistol. At a mere thought, the remaining ball of fire leapt away and engulfed the object, burning the hands of the man who held it. He regretted the injury, but was too angry to care too deeply for the man’s deserved pain. His side ached terribly and blood was running from his cut brow into his battered, swollen eye.

  His way out now open, he walked slowly and deliberately to the door, staring into each of the men’s faces, forcing them to lower their gaze or turn away. When he reached the door, a sudden impulse to punish them further grew in his mind. He felt power surge through his body, directed at the door. With a crash, the door and the frame around it splintered and fell outwards. He walked through the tattered remnants of the frame amid silence, deliberately stepping on the shattered door. His task completed, he suddenly felt drained. His steps faltered and he swayed. He knew that if he fell there, the others would soon overcome their fear and possibly kill him. He forced himself onwards toward his room.

  “Wait, I’ll help you.”

  He turned to see Evie running toward him, concern on her face. “Go away,” he yelled.

  “No,” she snapped. “You’re hurt.”

  He allowed her to help him to the inn and up the stairs to his room, where he collapsed on his bed.

  “You had better leave. Your friends will not look kindly upon this.”

  She grew livid. “Curse them all! The first man…” She blushed. She put her hands on her hips and faced him. “I’m not afraid of you.”

  He tried to smile. “Good. I’m ashamed of what I did tonight. I could have fought them all in a fair fight and won, but I allowed someone to sneak up on me. Something inside took over, some self protection spell.”

  She brought the chair beside the bed and sat down. “I’ve never met anyone like you. You’re not a Mage, but you have powers like one. I’ve seen Berass do things before, but I think you are stronger than him.”

  Tad could feel the whispers of the power lingering in his body. He could also feel his aches slowly diminishing as his body repaired itself. Where had this power come from? Had it been lurking inside all this time as Simios had suggested, or did this land, this Veil-infested country grow it like Berass’s garden grew weeds? Evie brought fresh water and cleansed his wounds, commenting on the fact that the cuts were healing already, “I’ll stay here tonight to keep anyone from coming in. You sleep. You look tired.”

  Tad was concerned for her safety. “What will they do, once I leave … to you, I mean?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing. I am one of them. Once you are gone, some other crisis will arise—a storm, an early snow, a plague ship, a lack of ale—that will focus their attention that way. People here have no time or desire to dwell long on troubles lest they realize their sorry lot in life.”

  He reached out and touched her hand. “I’m sorry I spoiled your dance.”

  She smiled. “It was marvelous. All the girls were jealous. They still will be after you are gone. You are so very different from the other men who pass through, even without your powers. It is a night I will well remember for many years.”

  “Glad I could be of service.”

  In the silence that followed, Evie leaned over and kissed him.
After a moment’s hesitation, he returned her kiss. Before he knew what was happening or could summon a protest, she was on top of him, removing her dress. His mind tried to summon the words to stop her, but his young body, fresh from the thrill of victory over his attackers, would not allow it. With his eyes closed, he imagined that she was Sira in his arms; then thought that was dishonorable to both Sira and Evie. He opened his eyes and looked at her, seeing her as she was, honest, open, and proud of what he had done. She offered to him what she was, a young woman enamored with an exciting newcomer to her boring little world.

  However, he could not mislead her.

  “No,” he said gently as he pushed her away. The look of surprise on her face shamed him, but he knew he was doing the right thing for both of them. “My heart belongs to another.”

  “But she is not here and I am. Do you not think I am pretty?”

  “Yes, you are the prettiest girl in the village and Sira is the prettiest girl in all of Churum.”

  Evie’s look of confusion turned to one of understanding. “You love her even if you never see her again.”

  “Especially then,” he answered.

  She kissed him softly on his lips, pulled her dress back around her naked body, and smiled. “She is a lucky woman.”

  “I am a lucky man. Now, there have been two women who have touched my heart.”

  Evie blushed, “But it is she you love.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you mind if I lie here beside you tonight? Just hold me until morning.”

  Tad nodded and she snuggled up beside him, her head on his shoulder with the scent of her hair reminding him of Sira. He felt no shame, no betrayal of Sira. He loved her, but she was across the sea and beyond his reach. For all he knew, Sira was engaged to someone and pining for her like a little boy served no purpose. Nothing would purge her memory, not this quickly. He would live with it as he lived with the newfound powers within him.

  He slept relaxed and ready to resume his journey.

  24