The Light of the Oracle

by Victoria Hanley

  Bryn stopped, peering ahead, thinking she'd glimpsed Eloise's cloak—a cloak with a distinctive pattern of cascading feathers woven into the fabric.

  Hoping to gain the trees before being spotted, Bryn hurried on. Where Eloise was, Clea was generally close by. She didn't want to encounter the two of them if she could avoid it.

  As she came close to the woods, some thistledown appeared in the air ahead of her.

  It was much too late in the year for a real plume of thistledown to be floating about. Autumn had long since stripped the trees and turned the thistles to dry, shriveled husks.

  This plume shone through the cold as though lit from within by silvery fire. It moved, leading away from the path to the woods, going toward those sheds by the pond where Eloise might be lurking.

  Bryn hesitated. She wanted very much to go roaming through the peaceful trees. She looked hard at the sheds. Yes, that was definitely Eloise's cloak peeping out from a corner.

  The thistledown floated lightly, as if beckoning toward the place where Eloise was hiding. Were she and Clea lying in wait? Bryn was in no mood to listen to the Feathers' taunts.

  As she stood irresolute, the thistledown faded; its light winked out and its gossamer fibers disappeared. Whatever it was trying to tell her couldn't have been truly important, or it would have persisted, she thought. She turned and headed down the path toward the trees.

  She hadn't gone far into the woods when she heard crying.

  A rock formation higher than Bryn's head bordered the path on the left. As she approached it, the crying grew louder. Curious, she left the path to look round the side of the rock. Dead leaves matted the earth under her feet as she crept past thorny brambles.

  Huddled against the rock face was a wailing handmaid. Yellow strands of her hair bunched against the rich collar of her cloak. Her eyes streamed tears, her nose was red and her body heaved with sobs.

  Clea.

  When she saw Bryn, she clapped one hand over her mouth.

  “Are you hurt?” Bryn asked, wondering what could make Clea cry.

  Clea shook her head. She put a dainty handkerchief over her nose and blew. Red-rimmed eyes looked up at Bryn. “ You wouldn't understand.” She waved dismissal. “Go away.”

  Bryn stopped, half turning, then squared her shoulders and faced Clea. “ You're not hurt, then?”

  Clea wiped more tears. “If you must know, I'm crying because my father wants me to be head of every class, and I can't be,” she sobbed.

  Her father? Astonished, Bryn watched the other girl compassionately. Was that the reason Clea always put herself forward, trying to outdo everyone else? Bryn thought of Simon, and the lines of patience in his face. She'd never considered what it would be like to have a different sort of father.

  Clea jerked her head in the direction of the Temple.

  “I can't tell anyone there that I'd rather not study so hard. They wouldn't understand.”

  Bryn thought of Eloise's harsh wit; of Charis's eager gossip; of Narda's hooting laugh. Such friends as those would certainly not understand.

  Serves you right. You picked your friends.

  Clea's sobs were subsiding. “No one expects anything of you,” she said, sounding more like herself. “It's not fair. You could become First Priestess one day, and you don't even care if you do.”

  Bryn shook her head with certainty. “I won't become First Priestess.”

  “No? Have you seen?” Clea was speaking of prophecy.

  “I haven't seen,” Bryn said. “But I know it won't be me.” And I hope it won't be you.

  Clea mopped her face with the handkerchief. “My brother's the lucky one. Next in line to the throne, he spends his time learning how to behave when he becomes king, while I'm expected to become First Priestess.”

  “Becomes king? But I thought the Princess Zorienne's health was improving.”

  Clea tossed her head. “That sickly thing? She won't outlive the queen. Everyone knows it. My brother and I are all that's left of the descendants of Great King Zor.”

  Bryn shivered, remembering what Kiran had said about the possibility of Raynor Errington becoming king: The gods help us all if that should happen.

  Clea interrupted her thoughts. “My father will be visiting the Temple for the Winter Solstice Festival. He won't be pleased to hear that a stonecutter's daughter is best at prophecy.” She rubbed her eyes, fresh tears sliding down her cheeks.

  Bryn felt the old anger start up. But Clea looked so miserable with her tear-streaked face. “Never mind,” Bryn said kindly. “ You leave me and everyone else behind in protocol, not to mention oration and ritual. And isn't Lord Errington pleased about your feather? You're happy with it, aren't you?”

  Clea shifted a little, bracing herself against the rock behind her. “ Yes. I wouldn't trade it for any other.” She paused, then said in a friendlier tone, “Would you like to see it?”

  Bryn drew back a little. Dawn had said that only close friends showed feathers to one another. Did Clea really want to be her friend? And she had no feather of her own to show; she didn't carry the wind with her.

  But this was a chance. If Clea ceased to be her enemy, maybe Eloise would stop baiting Dawn and Jacinta. Maybe the other Feathers too would relent. “I suppose so,” Bryn said.

  Clea peered round the rock. “There's no one behind you, is there? I don't want anyone else to see me this way.”

  Bryn shook her head no.

  “Sit here.” Clea patted the ground. “ You can show me the wind after you see my feather.”

  Bryn looked about. The chilly air was quite still. “The wind comes to me when it wishes to—it's not as if I can call it forth.”

  Clea smiled warmly. “Never mind. I still want to show you my feather.”

  Watching Clea's fingers reach inside the neckline of her robe, Bryn felt uneasy. She stood poised to run, not sitting as Clea had invited her to do.

  Clea pulled out a long, narrow case attached to a fine gold chain. She unfastened the chain. She opened the red laces that topped the case and drew out a feather, dull black fringed with iridescent gray. “ You see?” she said, putting aside the casing and getting to her feet. She waved the feather slowly; it carried the scent of carrion to Bryn's nose.

  “I-it's lovely,” Bryn said, nearly choking on the words.

  “Isn't it?” Clea's voice was all friendliness now. “But I wonder you should think so.” She waved the feather a little faster. “Eloise thought this would be difficult. She didn't believe you could be such a little fool.”

  Bryn gasped, inhaling the smell of decay. Her arms and legs felt suddenly dead; she dropped to the ground. What was wrong with her? What was Clea saying? She didn't know. Her ears buzzed. The only sense that seemed to be working was her eyesight; she saw the feather waving inexorably; saw Clea, her mouth curved in a triumphant sneer while she spoke words Bryn couldn't hear.

  Curse. She's cursing me!

  Bryn blew the vile air out of her nose and held her breath to get away from the vulture's sickening scent. She closed her eyes so she wouldn't see the horrid feather weaving unknown patterns. Trying with all her might to get her feet to move, she tasted panic.

  “ You can breathe now.” The words were quite clear. The buzzing in Bryn's ears stopped. Her eyes flew open. Clea was sliding the feather into its case.

  Gulping air, Bryn thought of leaping on Clea, tearing the feather from her hands, stomping it into the earth. But her body was as useless as a picked carcass.

  Clea bent close, her cornflower-blue eyes more scornful than ever. “In tomorrow's prophecy class you'll be last.” She slipped the long black case into her robe. “If you tell anyone, I shall put death curses on your friends.” She stepped on Bryn's hand, grinding her fingers into the dead leaves. “Don't think I wouldn't.”

  Before she disappeared behind the rock, she flung something to the ground. It rolled near Bryn, stopping at her feet. A freshly cut onion. Bryn gazed at the translucent skin, the delicate
white rings. So that was how Clea had made herself cry so convincingly.

  Dawn watched the doorway to the handmaids' dining hall. “Has anyone seen Bryn?”

  “ You've asked us three times,” Alyce told her.

  “Something must be wrong. I'll go look for her.” Dawn scrambled off the bench.

  Just then Bryn came through the door. Her drab beige cloak, issued by the Temple as she had none of her own, hung off one shoulder to trail on the floor, but she didn't seem to notice. Dead leaves and dirt clung to her shoes; a twig lodged in her limp braids. Her features seemed to be fading into her skin, except for her eyes, which stared out, even larger than usual, but with a half-blind expression.

  Dawn rushed to her side. “What is it?”

  Bryn's mouth hung slack. She didn't answer.

  Dawn heard a wave of giggles breaking behind her back. Whirling, she saw Clea and Eloise, their faces split with contorted grins. As always, they sat at the head of a long table, presiding over the highest-ranking Feathers, all of whom were obediently laughing at Bryn's distress.

  Dawn led Bryn to the eating table she shared with her friends. Bryn stared vacantly at an empty plate. Jacinta, Alyce, and Willow sat worriedly, not eating. “What did they do to you?” Dawn asked, trying to get Bryn to look at her. Bryn shook her head, eyes on her lap.

  “Ellerth is weakened by Keldes today,” Dawn muttered, fear squeezing her heart.

  Moving slowly, Bryn said good night to Dawn and drew her curtain. She set her candle on the small bedside table, stowed her shoes, and hung her robe in the wooden wardrobe.

  Sitting on the bed in her nightgown, she drew her knees up, clasping them with her arms. Her head drooped, resting on her knees. Clea's words echoed in her ears. In tomorrow's prophecy class, you'll be last…. If you tell anyone, I'll put death curses on your friends.

  Bryn didn't want to blow out the candle. It seemed as if the world itself would darken forever if she did. The shadow thrown by its small light loomed on the curtains, waving like Clea's feather.

  Then the flame sputtered and went out.

  Bryn trembled as she lay down, pulling the covers high. She remembered another night, a night when silvery light had filled her curtained nook, cast by a plume of thistledown.

  And she remembered Kiran's words: If you ever see that light again, you must follow it. No matter where it leads.

  Eleven

  In the morning, Bryn skipped her chores with Kiran. She hardly touched her breakfast. She drank water, praying that the cool liquid would somehow have the power to cleanse her of Clea's curse. She scarcely heard Dawn's worried whispers and couldn't respond to the confused sympathy of her other friends.

  Taking her seat in prophecy class as usual, she avoided Ilona's glance. She didn't look at any of the Feathers, especially not Clea. Not even when Ilona spoke of the exceptional importance of today's quest for a vision did she raise her head.

  “The Master Priest suspects that someone outside the Temple is practicing unsanctioned prophecy,” the First Priestess announced gravely. “It may be a gifted young man or woman, as yet undiscovered, in need of training here at the Temple. Or it may be someone who knowingly transgresses the laws of the Oracle. Your task is to seek a vision that will clarify who and where this renegade may be.”

  Bryn studied the whorls fanning out from a knot in the wood of her desk, her heart beating much too fast.

  “We have no tea leaves to guide us,” Ilona continued. “Do your best without them.”

  Bryn closed her eyes, afraid the First Priestess would notice her agitation over what Renchald was seeking. She fully remembered her dream of Selid, and Kiran's words about it: It may be that Selid was writing a prophecy when you saw her. …

  Concentrating, Bryn waited for the play of light that would usher in a vision. Maybe she would be able to locate a young girl or boy who was rightfully a handmaid or acolyte, thus turning Renchald's thoughts from Selid.

  Nothing happened. Blood drummed loudly in Bryn's ears. Her stomach clenched.

  “Bryn? Are you ill?” Ilona stood beside her desk, smooth face expressionless.

  Bryn shook her head. If only Ilona would leave, would forget about her. But the First Priestess slid a blank sheet of parchment closer to her hand, tapping it with her ivory stick.

  Bryn glanced at the other students, at Ilona, at the embroidery on her sleeve. The first time she'd seen that embroidery, its threads had carried her away, had shown her the wind, had whispered to her the promise of prophecy. She gazed at it now, but it failed to come alive for her.

  I could write the prophecy about Selid. They'd never know I see nothing now.

  And why not? Wouldn't others see what Bryn had seen, know what she knew? If she said nothing, whom would she be protecting? If she spoke, she might save herself. In tomorrow's prophecy class, you'll be last, Clea had said. If those words didn't come true today, maybe the curse would be weakened; maybe Bryn would have a chance to get back what Clea had taken.

  Don't tell him. She'll never read my words. The voice was so faint in Bryn's mind it sounded like a whisper from the dying.

  “If you're not ill, write your prophecy,” Ilona commanded.

  But Selid's face appeared bravely in Bryn's memory. She bowed her head. “I have no prophecy,” she said.

  Kiran whistled Jack's call, his frosty breath swirling in the lowering sky. The dog hadn't been in his normal place the evening before when Kiran stepped outside to get some air after spending a stifling afternoon studying with Brock. Come to think of it, this was the longest he'd gone without seeing Jack since they'd crossed the Lyden Desert together when Jack was a half-grown pup with mismatched eyes that spooked most people, and Kiran was a twelve-year-old boy fresh from the Eastland slums. He would never have consented to leave Jack behind, and the Master Priest had agreed to bring him along.

  Kiran pulled the hood of his cloak over his head and went looking for his dog. As he trudged the grounds, he listened for Jack's silent language. People thought animal speech was heard like human words. How foolish. Only humans contrived words and sentences and disturbed the truth with layers and shades. Only humans lied; animals didn't know how.

  Ignoring thickening clouds, Kiran walked on. Late afternoon and it felt like evening. Soon it would be the longest night of the year.

  As he neared the pond, the skin along Kiran's forearms prickled, the hairs standing up under his shirt. Jack was nearby, he felt sure, but something was wrong. The dog seemed distressed, as though he wanted to run but could not move, wanted to bite but was prevented, wanted to bark but had lost his voice.

  Kiran followed the sense in his skin, thinking of how dogs followed their noses, homing in on one scent among many. He opened the door to a small shed not far from the pond, a place seldom used except for temporary storage of orchard fruit during the harvest season.

  Jack lay on the dirt floor of the shed, his sides heaving. He didn't rise when light from the dim sky fell through the door, nor did he bark. He couldn't. His legs and his jaws were tied.

  Kiran pulled a knife from his cloak, bending to the dog. He forced patience into his angry hands, cutting through the strong, slender sash that bound Jack's jaws, removing the cords that tied his feet. The poor animal's tongue lolled as he tried to stand; he whimpered when his legs, bloody from straining at the cords, collapsed.

  Kiran balled up the cords, thrusting them into a pocket. He gathered Jack in his arms. The dog was about as heavy as two fifty-pound sacks of oats. Kiran carried him down to the pond. He set him close to the water's edge, then scooped freezing water for him in cupped hands. Jack slurped the precious moisture. When he was strong enough, he crawled forward, lapping the water himself.

  After drinking, Jack began licking at the blood on his legs. Kiran brought out the wad of cord, examining it. Fine-woven silk, dyed the deep blue of ordinary student robes. Gently, Kiran held it to Jack's nose, sending a question. Who?

  Jack bared his teeth. Kiran received a
n impression of two females. “Someone brought you a treat? Jack, I wish I could teach you not to take food bribes. Tied your legs while you ate. Then slipped a sash around your jaws?”

  He waited for more about Jack's tormentors, but the dog was worried about something else. “Someone you wanted to protect … but failed to keep safe.” Who? Kiran got a sense of Jack's strong devotion. “ You wanted to protect … Bryn!” Jack's tail thumped the ground. Was she hurt? The dog seemed confused. He whined softly, putting his long black nose up to Kiran's cheek.

  Kiran recalled Bryn's wan, hopeless face as Ilona tried to get her to write a prophecy. He had guessed she was concealing the vision of Selid. She'd been silent and distracted, staring blankly at nothing. And she'd missed chores that morning.

  He frowned as he jammed the sashes back into his pocket.

  * * *

  Lord Bartol Errington arrived at the Temple of the Oracle several days before the winter solstice. He occupied the suite of rooms Queen Alessandra had once stayed in.

  In the evening, Renchald, bearing wine, joined him for a private conference in a spacious room with a warm fire. Errington dismissed his servants, and the Master Priest directed his guard to remain outside the doors.

  Errington, chosen by the cormorant, was one of the few bird-chosen who had never aspired to the priesthood of the Oracle. He had used his time in the Temple simply to gain an education before returning to worldly affairs.

  The Master Priest took the stopper from the bottle. “Congratulations on the continued success of all your enterprises,” Renchald said, pouring for his guest. “As always, the gods favor you.” He set the bottle carefully down. “Tell me your news of our sovereign.”

  “Her Majesty continues to search for a cure for Zorienne, Your Honor.” Errington raised his eyebrows.

  Renchald paused. “The queen, as you know, is very determined.”

  “Despite your prophecy, sir. Why does she not accept the word of the Oracle?”