How chilly it was in the stony recess. Bryn shivered. She shouldn't be sniveling alone in this alcove like a silly child. It's the solstice. Solz triumphant. My seventeenth birthday.
Still, she couldn't bear the thought of returning to the dance. She'd never be able to hide her misery if Kiran and Clea were partners again. It would be better to slip away.
Taking one last look at the door to the Grand Hall, Bryn turned from the music and fled to the quiet of her pillow.
Seventeen
Kiran thought that the morning after the Solstice Festival always seemed colder than any other. Colder and bleaker. Few would be stirring in the early hours, for most preferred to sleep off the revelry that had lasted through the night.
Carrying a bone wrapped in sacking for Jack, Kiran nodded to a bleary-eyed guard and went outside. Shafts of cold pierced his lungs. He headed through the snow toward the stables, where Jack had a bed of straw. Early as it was, smaller feet had already left prints ahead of him. Recognizing Bryn's footprints, Kiran hurried forward. She hadn't returned to the dance the night before; Jacinta had looked for her; Alyce too. Dawn had been so lost in the glow of dancing with Avrohom, she hadn't noticed Bryn's early departure from the hall. Bryn's other friends had decided she must have taken ill.
Not wanting to chance Clea again, Kiran had slipped out himself as soon as it was plain Bryn wouldn't be back.
Now, he slipped inside the stables. Jack jumped excitedly around him as he uncovered the bone. “Here's breakfast.”
The dog settled himself with the bone between his paws as Kiran lit a torch. The light showed Bryn hunched on a straw bale close to Obsidian's stall, hidden in the folds of her cloak, its hood covering her head.
“Morning,” Kiran said. “Are you feeling better?” He put the torch in a sconce nearby.
She caught him off guard by saying, “I don't exist to Lord Errington, except perhaps as an annoyance to his daughter.”
Kiran wondered why Bryn would care whether she existed for Lord Errington or not. “Maybe that's a mark of character,” he answered.
“But you exist for him.” Her hood fell away as she lifted her head. Tangles of hair hung around her face. “When I came here, they said, ‘This is the Temple of the Oracle, the most sacred ground in Sorana. Here, we learn to serve the gods.' She put a hand to her forehead, rubbing as if she could ease her thoughts. “Nirene insists all the handmaids are equal, though she knows it's a lie,” she went on. “Ilona says the bird-chosen love and understand one another, and she pretends not to see all the meanness done by the Feathers.” She took a shaky breath. “The ones who do love and understand—those like Jacinta and Willow— are given no favor. But everyone, from the Master Priest to you, defers to Clea. And what are her virtues? She's pretty, she's wealthy, she's related to royalty— and she casts curses.”
“Bryn,” he said, “I don't defer to Clea.”
Her eyes were so shadowed he couldn't see them clearly. “Why else would you dance with her?”
“But I—”
She jumped from the bale. “I thought you were my friend,” she said. “My dearest friend. But if Clea puts death curses on my friends as she threatened, she won't be cursing you, will she?” And she ran to the door and out into the cold.
Kiran sat blinking for several moments. “I am your friend!” he yelled, too late for her to hear.
Obsidian neighed in answer. Jack stopped gnawing his bone and looked up, black ears sagging.
“ You might have done something to get her to stay,” Kiran said to Jack. “I can't put my paws on her anytime I want the way you can.”
Jack sniffed.
“I do not need a lesson in where to put my paws,” Kiran said. “Humans are different. You wouldn't understand. I don't understand.” He shook his head in frustration. “She doesn't understand.”
Jack yipped and returned to his bone.
A week after leaving the solstice dance early, Bryn sat morosely in the handmaids' dining hall. Classes would begin again in a few days, and her entire holiday had been hollow. She felt a perfect fool for the way she'd behaved at the dance—going off to bed without saying goodnight to anyone; missing hours of music. Worse, she'd blurted out her feelings to Kiran the next morning.
Though they'd continued doing chores together, Bryn felt awkward with Kiran now. When he looked at her, his eyes, usually so warm, were cool and distant.
“I wish I could ride Obsidian to Uste,” she said to Dawn. “See my father.”
Dawn rested her elbow on the polished wood of the table, chin on her hand, looking dreamily at nothing.
“She's still getting over dancing with Avrohom,” Alyce said.
Bryn nudged Dawn, making her jump. Dawn's dreamy look disappeared. Tears sprang to her eyes. She picked up her napkin, covering her face. “What's wrong?” Bryn asked, alarmed. Dawn mopped her face with the napkin. She blew her nose. “I'm so happy,” she said. “But I'll miss all of you so much.”
“Miss us?” Alyce stopped spreading butter.
Dawn dabbed at her eyes. “I'm leaving the Temple,” she said. “To be married.”
“Married!” Bryn and Willow shrieked. Several of the Feathers turned to stare. “To whom?” Bryn asked.
“Avrohom,” Dawn answered. “I wouldn't marry anyone else, would I?”
“Avrohom?” Bryn cried. It had been only a short week since the red-haired troubadour had leaped from the stage to dance with Dawn. Since then, Dawn had been mysteriously absent many times, but Bryn hadn't thought to question her. “ You're going to marry the troubadour?”
“Tonight,” Dawn said, nodding. “The Master Priest has agreed, but I've never seen him so angry.” She made a face. “He was hoping I'd become a star-caster for the Temple. Now he's probably afraid I'll tell Avrohom too many Temple secrets and they'll be sung to the world.”
“The troubadour,” Jacinta said. “ You're marrying the troubadour tonight ?”
“Tonight.” Dawn's eyes streamed. “I wish you could all be there for my wedding, but Renchald won't allow anyone. Only the smallest of ceremonies,” he said. She rolled her eyes. “The Sendrata of Handmaids will stand up with me.”
Bryn wanted to cry when she thought of mealtimes without Dawn, of waking in the morning without Dawn's cheerful whispers, of mathematics without Dawn's explanations. But she smiled at her friend. “Congratulations.”
Dawn grinned through tears. “I'll travel with the troupe. We're leaving tomorrow morning.” She clasped her hands. “I'll see the world.”
“You'll cast star charts for kings and queens,” Willow said.
Dawn crumpled her napkin. “Remember when you said Vernelda would favor me if I fell in love, Alyce? And so she has.”
She began to talk in raptures of Avrohom, how his music had always spoken to her heart but she'd never considered he'd feel anything for her. “Jacinta, the dress you designed got him to notice me. Once he did, love found us. Did you know he writes the songs the troupe performs? He told me he'll be able to write true love songs now instead of the bittersweet ballads he used to sing. Isn't that romantic?”
Nirene looked at the four determined young women who had insisted on a meeting.
“We're Dawn's friends,” Bryn was saying. The stone-cutter's daughter wasn't recognizable as the girl Renchald had plucked from the dirt of Uste. Her hair was neatly braided, her robe smooth, her face clean.
“We can't let her go away without a celebration, however small,” Jacinta declared.
“Let us use one of the rooms where guests are entertained?” Alyce asked.
Nirene frowned. “And whom will you be inviting?”
“Only a small group, Sendrata,” Bryn answered. “Ourselves. The guest of honor, naturally.”
“Her groom,” Jacinta put in.
“Brock and Kiran,” Willow added.
“Calden and Marvin,” Alyce finished. “And you, of course, Sendrata, to be chaperone.”
Nirene looked at their expectant fac
es in silence for a moment. “Oh, very well,” she said. “But I won't be bothered with preparations or cleaning up.”
“Of course not,” Bryn answered. “We know how to clean.”
Nirene showed them into one of the less imposing rooms kept for entertaining and watched sourly as they laid out a tablecloth, covering it with festive foods: delicate puff pastries, small frosted cakes, beribboned bowls of shelled nuts. Where had they got so many dainties? Nirene looked suspiciously at Alyce, who was setting forth plates with an innocent air.
Dawn arrived wearing her old student robes, looking flustered, her black hair hanging loose. The acolytes came through the door in a disorganized bunch a few minutes later, their voices loud in congratulation.
Brock had brought a vial of sand. “From beside the pond,” he explained, presenting it to Dawn with a flourish. “If you get lonesome for your friends you can open it, take a big sniff, and remember you're getting along quite well without us.”
Dawn clutched the sand, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. She settled on laughter.
Alyce gave a collection of recipes. “Though I know you may not get a chance to try them now that you'll be rich.” Jacinta brought a box of hair ribbons, while Bryn surprised everyone by producing a Star Atlas.
“Bryn,” Dawn squealed, “did you become a thief for me? This book isn't even battered.”
Bryn beamed. “Let me show you what I said to Ishaan to get it.” She went into an elaborate bow.
“Humble friend of student about to be married requesting book from esteemed instructor,” Brock shouted.
Everyone clapped. “Kiran helped with the bow so the book is from him, too,” Bryn said, somewhat stiffly, without looking in Kiran's direction. “And Ishaan pronounced you ‘fully adequate,' Dawn.”
“Fully adequate, no less.” Dawn fingered the book delightedly. “Thank you, Bryn.” She hugged the stonecutter's daughter. “Thank you, Kiran.” She shook hands with the tall freckled acolyte.
When Avrohom arrived, he awed the company by singing a newly written love song to Dawn: “Through the soft night air, Monzapel's light …”
Nirene refused to be drawn into such sentimental nonsense, but she had to admit the melody was haunting.
The friends talked and laughed. Brock glued himself to Dawn's side for awhile, talking with her about theorems.
Evening was approaching when the four young women grouped themselves beside Dawn. Bryn put an arm around her. “She may be yours for eternity, Avrohom, but she belongs to us now until the wedding tonight.”
“We're going to help you dress,” Jacinta announced, smiling at Dawn.
“Thank you for offering to clean, Kiran,” said Alyce.
“Don't thank only me,” Kiran answered. “Brock will be here too.”
“I will?” Brock said, acting shocked.
In the first prophecy class of the new year, Bryn slumped in her chair. Deciphering her vision was like trying to read a page of smeared ink. She saw no point in setting it forth. For that matter, why do I study any of the subjects taught at the Temple? I'll never be a priestess. During math class, numbers would jump about in her mind like pebbles knocked wide by a quarry hammer. She found history fascinating but suspected a great deal was being omitted. Geography was interesting too, but since most of the handmaids didn't leave the Temple grounds, the rivers, mountains, and oceans on maps seemed farther away than the moon and stars. Farther away than Dawn.
Bryn had watched her friend ride out of the Temple gates, tall and straight beside her husband Avrohom, famous troubadour. Dawn's hair had been gathered into ribbons tied in bridal knots, her gloved hand waving goodbye.
Bryn fiddled with the ragged end of her quill pen. Her blank parchment reproached her as the First Priestess collected the prophecies. When the gong sounded, Ilona said, “Bryn, remain after class.”
Clea paused beside her. “Are you feeling well, Bryn? You look like death.”
“Better than smelling like something that died long ago.” Bryn made her way to the front of the room, where the First Priestess stood beside the marble table that held the prophecy teapots and cups.
“ You're to come with me to meet with the Master Priest,” Ilona said calmly.
Bryn bit her lip. Her poor showing in prophecy must have come to the Master Priest's attention. She'd been expecting the Temple to forbid her to continue studying with the bird-chosen. She had no feather, and the wind had deserted her.
For a moment she thought Ilona would say more, but the First Priestess turned and led the way out with her usual quiet dignity.
When they arrived in Renchald's sanctum, Bryn knew, this time, what bow to make: humble student to Master Priest of the Oracle. She'd grown since the day she'd occupied the same seat in front of Renchald. She feared him much more now than she had then. She hardly dared look at him. When she did, she noticed that there was more silver in his hair, and that the lines in his austere face had deepened.
“A year and a half ago, you predicted the death of Lord Morlen at the hands of a young woman wielding a knife,” he began. “ Your report seemed unlikely at the time, but we have received word from Sliviia that Lord Morlen has died in the manner you described.”
Bryn remembered the rushing winds of prophecy, the visions seen while dreaming in the Oracle's alabaster chamber. Such things seemed removed from her now; as if someone else, not she, had found the golden couch in the shining room. She had since learned that the deep chamber was reserved for priests and priestesses who had undergone special purification. “The vision was true, then?” she asked faintly. If Lord Morlen has died, then the dream of Selid must also have been a true vision.
“ Yes. You are a gifted prophetess.”
She met his cool, opaque stare. “Perhaps I was when I arrived. I no longer see clearly.”
“ You're troubled,” he said. “Something is interfering with your prophecies. I can teach you a method for improving the clarity of your visions.”
“Troubled” by a curse, she thought. How much does he know?
What if he could teach her something that would dispel Clea's curse? What if she could learn to hear the voice of prophecy again; what if her visions, borne upon the wind, could return clear and full once more?
If not, I can be no less than I am now.
“What would I need to do?” She looked directly at the Master Priest, willing her eyes to show nothing, like his.
“ You would train with me personally. You need not bring your quill. Everything must be remembered, not written. And you must not discuss this training with any other person.” The keltice ring glittered on his hand, reminding her of the day they had first crossed paths. She will be with others of her kind. She will serve the Oracle, he had said.
The vulture statue loomed upon its pedestal. Would she go mad, watched by those black marble eyes and the Master Priest? But if she didn't learn from him, she might as well journey back to Uste. Either that or stay on in the comfortless Temple, becoming a senior handmaid, abandoned by the wind and bereft of visions.
The gyrfalcon tapestry glared at Bryn as she nodded.
SPRING
Eighteen
Spring had come, scenting the breeze with leafy buds and new flowers. The city of Tunise was thriving. Throngs of people worked to repair the roads from the ravages of snow, rain, and frequent travelers.
The talk of the town was the Gilgamell Troupe. They were to perform an open-air concert on the commons. There was hardly a person in the city who planned to stay home.
Lance persuaded Selid to go with him. Though eager for the music, she was hesitant about showing herself among so many.
“What if the Master Priest has spies posted?” she said.
“Wear your ugliest kerchief and no one will know you,” Lance answered, grinning, his brown eyes alight with anticipation of hearing the famous troubadours. The Temple didn't hold the same fear for him as it did for her. Hadn't Monzapel protected and guided her thus far?
> When they arrived on the green, mingling with the happy crowd, Selid felt queasy. She told herself to relax, but couldn't seem to do it. Hundreds of strangers jostled and shoved for position, pressing close, too close. Lance didn't seem to be bothered. He staked out a place for Selid and himself, then forgot about everything but the Gilgamell Troupe.
From the moment the troubadours appeared, Selid knew she shouldn't have come. She saw a glow around them, an ethereal glow that had nothing to do with the sunshine. She tried to ignore it, but the more she did the more it gathered force until it pressed against her forehead, a fisted hand of light.
She couldn't darken her visionary eye. Light beat and pulsed, blending with the music, swarming in her head. She fought for calm, fought for air.
She murmured to Lance that she wasn't feeling well and went stumbling through a forest of rough shoulders and sharp elbows toward the edge of the crowd, not looking back to see if Lance followed or not, overcome by the driving need to get away. He did follow, of course. He caught up with her and helped her, clearing a passage to the perimeter of the crowd. There Selid sank to the ground, holding her head and panting.
Lance sat beside her, an arm around her, murmuring quietly. “There, it's all right. It's all right.”
“Selid? It's surely you?”
The voice close to her ear startled Selid badly. She looked up into a familiar face bent over her.
Dawn. It was the tall handmaid she had known in the Temple of the Oracle. It seemed ominous that she should appear at such a moment, when Selid was struggling to shut out the Oracle's light. What was she doing here? She wasn't dressed as a handmaid. More like a princess, in flowing white. Sapphires sparkled at her wrists and throat. Maybe she was an apparition.
Dawn helped Lance get Selid on her feet and lead her farther from the crush of people. “Selid, I knew it was you the moment I saw you. Something about the way you hold yourself. I'm so glad. I was afraid …” Dawn stopped.
Selid forced herself to gather her wits. Dawn's face was becoming strangely lit, as those of the troubadours had been. The light threatened to thrust Selid into a future she did not want to see. Refusing the Oracle had never been more difficult!
The Light of the Oracle Page 15
