The Light of the Oracle

by Victoria Hanley

  The delight Dawn felt about Bryn being wind-chosen nearly choked her when she caught sight of Clea. In the excitement, Clea must have forgotten to hide her emotions beneath the pretty mask of her face. She stared at Bryn, blue eyes glazed with hatred, mouth flattened to a slit of fury.

  Standing high on his platform, Renchald watched everything. A Master Priest might live and die without ever seeing the wind choose a handmaid or acolyte. But the gods had ordained that he, Renchald, would rule the Temple when a wind-chosen girl entered it.

  His predecessor had warned him: the wind-chosen made exceptional prophets and prophetesses; they could enhance the reputation of the Oracle with their wondrously accurate predictions. But if they managed to align themselves with all the powers of the wind, they became dangerous, able to summon cyclones at will, quite impossible to control.

  Except with a curse.

  Master Priests of the past had made a practice of curbing the wind-chosen before they could develop the full powers of their gift. A vulture-chosen curse, secretly ordered and secretly carried out, would nullify any threat Bryn might pose in the future.

  Renchald would not be hasty. Bryn might remain quiescent for years to come. He knew what to watch for; knew how the wind's latent power would show itself in the beginning. The smallest touch of a breeze would start to follow her wherever she went. It would not be enough to draw notice unless one were alert.

  The Master Priest intended to be alert.

  Nine

  Bryn asked Dawn to explain the significance of being wind-chosen, but Dawn had little to tell her. “I haven't seen or heard much of any lore about it except that it's a terribly unusual gift, which is why so many people keep staring at you.”

  Bryn twisted her mouth. “I thought I must have a smudge on my nose.”

  Dawn shook her head vigorously. “People stare at anything strange. They stare at me because I'm tall. Being wind-chosen is much more unusual.”

  Bryn sighed. “But what does it mean?”

  “I believe you'll be allowed to join the prophecy class just as if you'd been given a feather,” Dawn answered. “And I know that Ellerth looks after your gift.” She threw up her hands. “Beyond that, I'm sorry, I don't know.”

  Bryn searched for a book that would explain, but found to her irritation that the Temple library was staffed by Feathers each time she went in. She reluctantly approached Charis for help, but the hummingbird-chosen young woman led her to a shelf full of dusty volumes, none of which had anything to do with the wind, or gifts, or even Temple history. Bryn heard Charis tittering gleefully with Eloise, and left the library with nothing to show but the dust on her fingers.

  However, Dawn had spoken truly as far as her knowledge went. The First Priestess included Bryn along with the newly bird-chosen handmaids and acolytes when she issued formal invitations to her prophecy class.

  Overflowing with curiosity and awe, Bryn and Willow found their way to their first prophecy class together. The Sendrata of Handmaids stood at the door to greet students as they entered. She pointed them to their places.

  Fluted pillars stood at the four corners of a wide room lit by high windows and filled with simple wooden desks. Each desk was supplied with a neat stack of parchments, an inkwell, and quills. A long marble table at the front of the room held rows of small red teapots and cups. Four large steaming kettles stood on an iron range. Tapestries graced the walls, showing handmaids and acolytes bowing to birds of every description; accepting feathers long, short, wide, and narrow.

  Bryn took the seat indicated for her beside Willow and fidgeted as she waited for everyone to assemble. Kiran came in, and a few minutes later Brock, the owl-chosen acolyte; Nirene seated them next to each other on the opposite side of the room from Bryn. When all were present, Nirene left.

  The First Priestess advanced to the front of the room. Her eyes shone in her bronze face like black olives as she silently regarded the students. She carried a slim ivory stick. She bowed formally: First Priestess of the Oracle greeting prophecy students. The class rose as one to bow in return: humble students of the Oracle greeting First Priestess.

  Ilona motioned them to their seats. She waited until the rustles and whispers died away, and then allowed silence to grow until it took on power.

  “We have a number of new students,” she said at last. “ You are welcome. Our class time is precious and will not be used for introductions.

  “All of you are gifted with prophecy. You have a great deal to learn, not only about the fine points of how to interpret your visions, but also about how to treat your prophecies and those of others.” Her gaze roved over them. “Some of you consider yourselves knowledgeable because you have attended this class in prior years. I expect you to listen as closely as the new students. Early lessons bear repeating.”

  She paused. “ You must obey three basic laws if you wish to serve the Oracle. First: Never speak of your visions outside this class to anyone for any purpose. Second: Treat every other prophet's visions with the same sacred confidence as you do your own. Third: Neither conceal any vision from me and the Master Priest nor pretend to visions you do not have.”

  For a moment, Bryn saw the image of a golden eagle hovering behind Ilona; its wings overlaid her arms, its head was like a helmet. “If you break any one of these laws, the gods will know it,” Ilona said. “They will not pardon you.”

  Bryn's heart began fluttering against her ribs as if it were a bird trapped in a cage. She clutched the edge of her desk. She had lied to the Master Priest, told him she remembered nothing more of her dreams when she had slept in the alabaster chamber.

  But she did remember.

  “The punishments for transgressing these laws are both secret and severe,” Ilona was saying.

  That was certainly true, Bryn knew. Hadn't Kiran said that Selid let it be known she was keeping back some of her visions? Why had she done so? Bryn had seen an entire procession follow the Master Priest's lead, bypassing Selid in the desert. It could only have been by his order that she was left in the Lyden without water. Very likely he now believed her dead.

  Bryn felt the urge to run to the First Priestess, throw herself on her mercy, confess the lie, tell the vision, beg, in the name of the gods, to be forgiven. But then she heard Kiran's words echoing in her mind: If Renchald knew Selid was practicing prophecy outside the Temple, he'd hunt her down. …

  She could not betray Selid. She could not.

  Why had the thistledown guided Bryn to the alabaster chamber; why had the Oracle chosen her? She could not believe it was chance. The same light that had shown her where to go for the vision of Selid had urged her not to reveal what she had seen.

  Bryn stared at Ilona, cool and knowing and enigmatic. Would the First Priestess guess her mind?

  Were the gods, perhaps, simply biding their time before striking?

  Sweat stinging her skin, Bryn wiped her forehead with her frayed sleeve.

  The First Priestess was speaking again. “Many, if not all, of those who begin learning to prophesy feel glad to be chosen. But serving the Oracle is painfully difficult. For every happiness she bestows, the Oracle gives a double measure of sorrow. She sends visions, yes. A few may be pleasant, but most are not.” Ilona's dark eyes were serious.

  “Consider what it means to see the future. Whereas sometimes dire events can be changed for the better by a timely prediction, just as often they cannot be altered and the best that may be done is to prepare for hardship and catastrophe.”

  She tapped her palm lightly with the ivory. “Some-times you will perceive images that you do not understand until there is no time left to give warning of what they foretell. When you are unsure of the meaning of a vision, simply write an exact description of what you have seen. Do not attempt interpretation unless the meaning is clear to you.”

  She pointed her stick. “ You have a question, Brock?”

  The owl-chosen young man rose. “Why is the Oracle cryptic? Why not send either a clear v
ision or no vision?”

  Ilona didn't change expression. “It is not the Oracle who is cryptic, but the acolyte who is inept.” Her eyes swept the room. “My answer speaks to all of you, not only to the acolyte wise enough to ask the question. The Oracle never sleeps, but you sleep even when you seem to be awake. The remedy for your native blindness is to develop awareness—the quality of being truly awake. This is more difficult than you can imagine.”

  She tapped the stick sharply against the table that held the teapots. “ You will learn to clear your minds of hopes and wishes, for your desire to see a particular future will blind you to what the Oracle shows. For instance, if you hope to see water, even if the Oracle sends a vision of fire you will not perceive fire; you will see mist or some other delusional mixture of your wishes and the Oracle's knowledge.”

  She pointed to the row of teapots. “Those who seek guidance from the Temple's prophets are directed to send us dried tea leaves from tea they have previously drunk. Some of the essence of the person who drank the tea remains in the leaves. The Oracle reveals the destiny contained within the essence.” She lifted the stick. “Another question?”

  Brock was still standing. “If destiny is contained in essence,” he asked, “how could a prophetic warning lead to a different future?”

  Ilona's eyes shone darkly. “All people can make choices,” she answered. “For example, if a lord is warned about the opium he has been smoking, what choices might he make, Brock?”

  Brock waggled his eyebrows. “He could quit his pipe?”

  “If he were wise,” Ilona answered. “Then again, he might decide to hide his pipe, and continue smoking in secret. The decision he makes will cause his essence either to strengthen or to weaken.” She spread her hands. “ You will encounter thousands of examples during the course of your time serving the Oracle.

  “A prophecy may be simple or confusing. The most straightforward prophecies foretell accidents, especially those involving children; most of these accidents can be averted. The most convoluted prophecies apply to powerful adults with many secrets.”

  She waved Brock into his seat. “The curiosity of the owl-chosen is legendary, but I must ask you to hold further questions. Now we'll proceed with drinking tea and seeking visions.” She pointed to a row of handmaids. “Eloise, fill the teapots. Jacinta, Narda, and Charis, hand round the cups and pots. I will deliver the tea.” Eloise began filling the small red and gold teapots with hot water from the kettles.

  Jacinta set a cup and steaming teapot on Bryn's desk. The exquisite little cup had a scalloped rim glinting with gold leaf. Ilona added a dry drift of tea leaves to the bottom of it.

  When everyone was supplied, Ilona rang a bell. “Pour the water,” she directed. “We will say the invocation to the Oracle as the tea steeps.”

  Bryn poured, watching the heated water cover the tea leaves, plumping them. She murmured the invocation with the others. Ilona rang the bell again; its silver chime reverberated with an oddly piercing note.

  “The tea leaves are from Lord Abernam of the Southland. He expects a superior harvest of grapes this year. He asks for a vision concerning the quality of the wine that will be brewed in his new casks.

  “Sip your tea. Await the vision. When it arrives, inscribe it on your parchment exactly as it appears to you.”

  Along with the other students, Bryn lifted the delicate red and gold cup, and took a drink; it was so small it held only a few sips.

  She closed her eyes, wondering if the Oracle would grant her a vision. She didn't have long to wait before she felt a sensation reminiscent of the alabaster chamber, as if liquid light were pouring into her. Her forehead tingled.

  A room full of wine casks appeared to her. The casks looked newly made, the workmanship fine, the wood carefully shaped and banded with metal struts. A man, frowning in concentration, poured deep red juice into one of the casks.

  Bryn looked carefully at the man so that she might describe him. He had a small, jagged scar on his left cheek, and his hair was thinning. He must be important in some way, she thought. Why else would the Oracle show him to her?

  But her attention was drawn away from the man and focused on the dull bands of metal circling the casks. Her vantage changed and she could see inside the casks, where more metal strips were nailed, reinforcing the bands on the outside.

  A breeze rushed past her ear. Lead has been beaten into the metal. Those who drink the wine will sicken.

  The words were spoken in the tone that Bryn recognized from her dream on the golden couch, the bell-like certainty of the voice of the Oracle.

  Prophecy.

  Bryn's eyes flew open. She dipped her quill and began to write.

  The prophecy that named leaden strips as a poisoning agent in Lord Abernam's wine was the first of Bryn's predictions to be verified. She took to prophecy like seed to the wind. As summer ripened toward autumn and autumn grew cold, she outstripped more experienced students, rising to head of the prophecy class, with Clea a close second behind her. Furious over not being first, Lord Errington's daughter never missed an opportunity to insult or irritate Bryn outside class.

  “Bryn,” she would say sweetly, “the second privy from the right among the latrines didn't look clean this morning—see to it, won't you?” And then would come her mocking laughter.

  Eloise always seemed to be nearby, and she would chime in: “Dawn, when you go out today, don't forget to bring your pet rat.”

  With the days growing shorter, Bryn and Dawn had to get up long before the sun to finish cleaning before the gong sounded. The scrub-water was icy. As they worked, they made up extravagant curses for Clea and Eloise. May Clea live in a latrine. May Eloise meet with a woodpecker who mistakes her for a tree.

  Brock continued grinning and joking his way through his studies. He questioned all the instructors past their patience, then laughed off the scowls and punishments he earned. He prophesied with vigor and flair, but he was always getting himself in trouble for having visions that strayed far afield from whatever assignment Ilona had given. The fact that his prophecies were unvaryingly true didn't sway the First Priestess from giving him low marks; she wanted Brock to follow instructions. But the curly-headed smith's son simply smiled and went his own way.

  As for Kiran, he often remained silent throughout a class. His behavior was so different from Brock's that everyone but Bryn was surprised when the swan-chosen and owl-chosen young men became good friends.

  FALL

  Ten

  A day's ride north of the Temple of the Oracle, in the city of Bewel on the edge of the Lyden Desert, Selid dipped her quill.

  She had developed a reputation as a fine scribe, but it brought her no pleasure; she was afraid of drawing notice from the Temple. She never gave her true name to her customers, of course; everyone knew her as Zera.

  More than half a year had passed since her ordeal in the desert, but Selid still sometimes awoke believing she heard the Temple gong. Then she'd open her eyes and realize that she was beside her new husband, Lance, a carpenter of Bewel—Lance, whom she loved with passionate tenderness, and from whom she hid the secret that she had been consecrated to Keldes, Lord of Death.

  If an unknown handmaid had not given her water, her bones would be picked clean by now, sinking into the desert sand. She often thought of the girl's kindness and hoped she had not been punished too harshly.

  Selid had tried, at first, to resist the carpenter's love. She knew that each day she lived was borrowed from Keldes by the mercy of Monzapel, Goddess of the Moon, who guided and protected her. It was unclear how long the goddess could intercede—the slender silver thread that kept Selid alive would snap one day. She didn't know when.

  Lance had persisted in courting her. Perhaps he'd known from the beginning that she was only pretending she didn't care for him as he did for her, for who could not love the good carpenter? His love eased the agony Selid had felt over being cast out of the Temple.

  Lately she had fel
t Keldes stalking her. The Lord of Death had begun walking through her dreams wearing Renchald's face. Was it premonition? Did the Master Priest seek her? Selid didn't know. Maybe he believed she had died. He had once thought she would become First Priestess. Did he remember that he had taught her how to conceal herself from other prophets who might be looking for her? He had called it “placing an etheric cloak.” She practiced the technique daily without knowing whether it was working. The only thing she could be certain of was that despite being stripped of her feather, her powers of prophecy had not diminished.

  Yes, prophecy had followed her—surviving the painful secret ceremony consecrating her to Keldes, and all that had come afterward. A red cardinal lived in the branches of the spruce tree outside. Since leaving the Temple, Selid had learned that she didn't need tea leaves to see visions—they would arise, unbidden, in the midst of the market or the middle of the night.

  Now, she pulled the candle a little closer. She trimmed the nib of her pen. Lance had gone to bed hours ago while she scribed. He thought working by candlelight would strain her eyes, but she liked the quiet of night.

  Lance would not like to know what she was writing now. It would worry him, and so she kept it to herself. Sitting alone, Selid defiantly practiced writing visions.

  Practiced writing them in the style of the Master Priest.

  South of where Selid lived, the handmaid who had saved her life ran along the Temple path toward the pond. It was Velday, day of freedom from classes.

  When Bryn decided to slip away for a walk in the woods, she didn't have any idea that a curse was laying a trap for her.

  She whistled for Jack, but the dog didn't appear. She knew Kiran was in the library; he had mentioned, grudgingly, that if he wanted to understand the math lessons, he'd need to get help from Brock.

  Bryn followed the footpath that would pass the pond and veer into the trees. As she ran, a movement caught her eye. A collection of small outbuildings stood not far from the pond, and something had darted between two sheds.