by Mary Corran
Why me?
Asher found herself wondering whether the gremlins of malicious Fate had heard her long-ago promise to herself, and this was how they mocked her, in forcing her towards the very thing she feared.
Feared? I am afraid of this Oracle? It shocked her to realize it might be true.
To either side of her path the slopes were lightly wooded with pine and laurel which grew more closely as they rose toward the peak. Outcroppings of rock showed the land to be poor, and there were no huts nor arable plots around the walls as there were to north and south of the city. Only the gleaming white stone of the citadel a thousand feet above disturbed the natural contours of the hill.
Halfway up, breathing hard, Asher turned to stare down the way she had come. The city looked unnaturally peaceful from a distance, the layout far more orderly than in reality. The major thoroughfares bisected the city at improbably perfect angles, the square of civic offices neatly centred. The River Sair wove a dissolute line from north-west to east, carving out a drunken route through the old quarter, which looked less maze-like and more inviting from above. None of the tumult of sound inside the walls reached her. Out to sea, a fleet of small fishing boats was making its way to shallow waters, looking like the tiny models boys played with in the harbour. The whole was alien, unfamiliar. Sighing, she turned back and resumed her upward trudge.
Why me?
The cynical part of her mind suggested it was a matter of irrelevance who was chosen; the glamour remained, no matter who was selected. But it was difficult not to speculate on what the Oracle might have to say to her. It was a reluctant admission to curiosity, but an admission nonetheless.
It was foolish to fight the inevitable.
It grew darker as she neared the top, trees blocking out some of the light. Birds sang, their shrill voices oddly muffled as if there were something about the place that prohibited too much sound. Asher was hot after the climb, but in the shade of the trees the air was cool, with a powerful scent of pine resin.
The last section was the steepest; she emerged from the trees on to a wide rock plateau panting for breath. Here, at least, a sharp breeze blew, plastering her skirts against her legs and ruffling her hair. The crest of the hill was flat, barren pale grey rock with only a dusting of scrub, and to the west the land fell away to a precipitous drop that made her giddy as she looked out and down to the inland valley. Behind her were the city and the sea; ahead lay the citadel, tall gates standing wide, high white walls glistening in the sunlight.
How beautiful. As her skin cooled in the wind, the sun high overhead, Asher’s eyes watered as she continued to stare at the plain walls. There was no one there to greet her or tell her how to proceed.
I suppose I just walk in.
The narrow archway was three times her own height. She walked under it and found herself in a short covered passage which was unexpectedly cold, emerging at the far end on to a vast courtyard open to the sun, paved in the same glistening white stone as the walls. Instantly confronting her, dwarfing smaller structures to either side, stood a large, unornamented, rectangular building which made her catch her breath. There was no sound at all, and no one about except for a white cat with red eyes that hissed at her approach, then darted away, tail lashing furiously.
‘Welcome.’
She blinked as a white-robed priest appeared from a blank face of stone to her left, against which he had been standing, chameleon fashion. Feeling an intruder, she proffered the silver leaf, which he took.
‘Do you carry arms?’ She shook her head. ‘If you wear any charms or amulets, you must remove them. I will keep them for you safely.’
‘I have none.’
The priest looked surprised, but acknowledged her answer with a stately inclination of his angular head.
‘Then you may enter.’ He pointed to the rectangular structure. ‘No gifts may be proffered by those whom the Oracle has summoned. May your fortune prove auspicious.’ With which words he hurried off, a sprightly figure, his sandals flicking up puffs of dust.
Asher regarded the House of the Oracle with a sense of deep foreboding; its very plainness impressed her against her will, as if the power it was said to contain had no need for false adornment. The structure was long — at least a hundred and fifty feet, by forty wide — the roof slightly arched; narrow slits high along the sides served in the place of windows, and the whole had a dark and forbidding appearance despite the brightness of the stone.
What if it’s true? What if the future exists, fixed and unalterable?
She felt a chill hand clutch her heart. Inside lay the Oracle. Was it possible she had been wrong all her life? She took a few steps towards the entrance, then stopped at the sight of two trees, one to either side, each bearing silver, scarlet-veined leaves. This, then, was her token’s origin.
There were no doors, only a wide portico open to allcomers. Telling herself fiercely she had nothing to fear, Asher moved on, but there was a new ambivalence to her feelings now that she had come so close. It was one thing to be sure, another to know; if she had believed wrongly for fourteen years, she was unwilling to discover it.
You gave your word.
A promise suddenly seemed a small thing to break. Would Margit have been so insistent if she had made her own feelings plain? But it was too late to find out now. Lifting her head and straightening her spine, Asher entered the building.
She was instantly enveloped in a chill darkness, breathing in icy air that felt damp and smelled of stone and an unidentified spice. She wondered why it was so cold.
Faint streaks of light entered the hall, but it was too dark to see, so Asher waited, chilled, for vision to return as her eyes grew slowly accustomed to the dim interior. She thought she could hear the low murmur of voices far away, but the sounds were too low-pitched to carry to where she stood.
Where ...
An immense figure stood at the far end of the hall, so tall it would have dwarfed even a Kamir; it was the first thing she could make out, and a few seconds passed before Asher realized it was only a statue, a stone representation of Lady Fortune, the Fate said to prophesy in the citadel. Her scales were held out at shoulder height, weighing for everyman the Fates of Chance and Destiny, for health and wealth and fortune.
Her second discovery was that she was not alone; two men were before her, standing with their backs to her, intent on something that lay between themselves and the statue. One wore a priest’s robe, she could make out its shape and colour even in the shadows, but the second, a much taller man, she guessed to be a suppliant like herself. She walked towards them, glad not to be alone, for there was something about the House of the Oracle that disturbed her profoundly. Her skin crawled as she drew closer to the statue, and her ankle turned on an uneven slab of stone in the dark; she let out a muffled cry of pain.
Instantly, the priest turned and saw her, uttering a horrified exclamation. ‘Who are you? What are you doing here?’
Asher flushed, grateful for the concealment of the darkness. ‘A suppliant. I was directed here.’
‘You should have waited outside until our audience was concluded; consultation is a private matter between Oracle and petitioner.’ He sounded both outraged and dismayed, as if Asher might have overheard some dangerous treason. His companion, too, turned to see the cause of the interruption. Asher could make out the angle of his head, and was suddenly conscious of a new sensation, like ice-water trickling down the bones of her spine.
‘It was obviously a simple accident.’ The second man gave her a quick, dismissive glance. Asher returned the inspection, the advantage on her side, for his face was lit from above by a narrow strip of light where hers was in shadow. She could make out a scar to the right of a well-shaped jaw, a jagged line of awkwardly puckered skin, and wondered how he had come by it. His skin had a leathery consistency, and his hair was a reddish-brown above strong, broad-boned features; not a handsome man, but his face was made remarkable by reason of a pair of eyes of an a
stonishingly vivid blue, which gave depth and intelligence to his countenance.
‘I thought there was no one here.’ Her own voice sounded unfamiliar in the gloom. ‘I’ll go.’
The priest seemed mollified by the offer, but before he could accept another voice issued from further back in the hall, the command seeming to emanate from deep underground.
‘Draw near, Fortune’s child.’
There was nothing even remotely human about the voice. In her mind, Asher knew it came from one of the Mouths of the Oracle, the women who dedicated their lives to channelling the words of the Fates, mere instruments to their power; but in her heart she did not believe the sound could come from a woman’s throat. In one instant of unwanted revelation, and against all her beliefs, it made plain to her both that it knew her, and that it was speaking to her, knowing what as well as who she was. The priest shot her a questioning glance, then gestured her urgently forward.
‘Stand there and listen,’ he hissed. ‘No! Closer.’
Numbed by cold and shock, Asher stood and faced the statue. In front of her, built into the floor by her feet, she could make out a flight of steps leading down to a deep pit partially obscured by rolling white smoke, but even as she looked more clouds billowed up, so she could not see even the outline of the woman who lay hidden there. Tendrils of curling smoke crawled across the stone floor, low-lying and reptilian in motion; there was a sharp, metallic smell in the air, and it was icy cold.
At last, the voice came again, and it was not hard to believe the unseen presence was there, watching her through the obscuring mists.
‘You, whom Chance has gifted with
A double share of Fate;
Stand forth.’
The priest pushed her gently nearer the pit, from which more smoke rose, concealing her feet in an icy shroud. She stood stock still, terrified of moving, of falling into the depths.
It was only a brief moment before the voice went on;
‘Fortune’s child.’
A second pause. Then:
‘Within your compass
Lies the means to pierce the veil,
The mask of grey enshrouding
What is sought from those who search.’
Another hesitation.
‘See the shifting shadowlines;
Mark what may from what must be;
In what was lies what will be;
Look, with eyes that choose to see.’
Again, a pause long enough to be registered as deliberate:
‘Look — or lose. Fortune’s child.’
The volume diminished, the voice fading into silence with a sigh. Asher could not move. She felt herself utterly remote from the situation, as if the whole experience were happening to someone else, to another Asher who was nearly, but not quite, herself. She knew, with a frozen clarity and without hope of contradiction, whatever the meaning of the Oracle’s words, that she could no longer hold to her distant promise.
It was not possible that the priest who had given her the token could have known the circumstances of her birth; in Venture she was only Asher, born to that city, not Asher of Harrows, sole survivor of identical twins: a Fortune’s child, as they were termed. And if the priest had not known, then how could the Oracle identify her, unless the Fates had marked her out? And if that were so — and she shot a hasty glance at the tall man standing with the priest — and the rest, then even her natural stubbornness must give way. She was not a fool; or not any more.
It must all be true. The future was there, already written and unalterable. She had deceived herself for fourteen years, and the blow was all the more bitter for the small part of her that still held out against conviction, wishing for the truth to be a lie.
‘So you are a twin. How unusual and how favoured.’ The priest scuttled to her side, peering into her face with pleased eagerness. ‘Small wonder the Oracle summoned you here today. Now, tell me: does this augury have meaning for you, or do you require my help?’
‘Help?’ she repeated stupidly.
‘It seemed to me one of the more — shall we say dense — Oracular prophecies.’ Bright eyes regarded her searchingly. ‘I’m afraid that some are plainer than others, and most more than this. If you were to ask me, I should say this means you may find something lost, something deliberately concealed from you, but that in order to do so you must look at the matter from a — different — perception. Or that is my interpretation.’
She was shaking with cold, or reaction, or both. What joy can there be in knowing the future? It means living without hope, without happiness, she thought drearily. The priest’s words passed over her head; she had lost the protection of her unbelief. She could feel the stirrings of a deep unhappiness that would draw her down into despair. No hope, she thought dully.
There was a stirring from the pit, as if the smoke itself, by its motion, was giving warning of further revelations. The voice, however, when it came again, was less startling to Asher than on the first occasion.
‘Stand forth, O seeker. Come to me;
Your fortune waits.’
The tall man obeyed the summons with greater alacrity than Asher had displayed; as he moved further up, she moved back, away from the pit and the light, hardly aware of what she was doing.
‘The leopard hunts for hunger,
Not for greed; he satisfies
His appetite and is replete.’
A studied pause.
‘In the Shadow, chained and bound,
The Bear sleeps; the leopard stalks
His prey, the flightless hatchling
Who alone can rouse the Bear.’
A pause, as if the Oracle wished to impress the listener to pay closer attention.
‘In vain his hunt, his seeking,
Save she whom Fortune favours
Drinks with him from that same cup:
Then the mask is stripped away.
The Bear wakes; the Shadow fades.’
The eerie voice faded slowly on the final sibilant hiss. Asher ducked her head as the man to whom the words had been addressed turned first to the priest, then to her, his expression hidden in shadow.
‘This is unheard of!’ The old priest, in his agitation, allowed his voice to rise. ‘This search, then, concerns you both — be sure of it!’ “Drinks with him from that same cup.” And what a purpose.’ His tone softened as he took in the meaning of the second prophecy. “The flightless hatchling — the Bear.” You are looking for Vallis, our young heiress, both of you!’
‘I am.’
Asher did not respond, it did not seem necessary, nor did the man seem to expect it.
The priest’s voice sharpened. ‘You are aware that many have come here seeking her, and all have gone away unanswered over these fourteen years?’
‘It seemed likely.’ The tall man’s voice held a quiet confidence, as though the news did not cause him undue anxiety.
‘Well, you may ask the question, if it pleases you to do so. The Oracle has summoned you, and spoken for you.’ The priest was looking at Asher in invitation, but she only shook her head, and he turned his attention back to the tall man. ‘Then speak, if that is your wish; it is your right to ask the Oracle a question on this day.’
‘They say nothing happens here that is not foreseen.’ The suppliant cleared his throat and moved a pace nearer the pit, turning away from Asher. ‘Very well, then.’ He raised his voice. ‘Mouth of Lady Fortune, who summoned me here, I wish to ask where I shall find Vallis, third child of Dominus Lykon of Darrian.’
The priest shook his head gently. Asher, however, was not surprised when the cold voice came again; matters had gone far beyond coincidence, beyond any random chance.
‘The Hawk will fly no more;
Pinion’d, he lies in shadow.
The land will bear him down.’
There was a new, icier chill in the tone, a dismissal, as if the fate of Lykon, the Hawk, held no interest for the Oracle.
‘Unseeing and unseen,
<
br /> Her wings bound and flightless,
Layered in forgetfulness,
She lies. She waits the day
Of self-revelation.
Come that day of memory,
She casts aside the Shadow,
And, when Hawk may breathe no more,
Flies upwards, soaring free.
She calls, and she is answered:
At her cries, the cold ice cracks;
The sleeping Bear awakes.’
The silence following the pronouncement of the ultimate word was prolonged. Asher groped for the meaning of the prophecy, understanding the beginning — that Lykon was to die — but mystified as to the rest. Did it mean Vallis was a prisoner? And, if so, where? The hawk analogy was plain enough, that if she were free she would take her father’s place, but the remainder seemed a mere repetition of the old prophecy — that her luck would deliver Darrian from the grey men.
‘Yours the knowledge, his the search.’ The priest was surveying her with renewed interest. ‘ “Drinks with him from that same cup.” Your lives are in some fashion bound together, I believe. I know I should not say so, but this is a great day, a great day. I am Venture born and bred.’ He shook his head. ‘But I do not understand it all — even I, who have interpreted a thousand such utterances for the Oracle — this is not for me, but for you.’
Her fellow suppliant was also watching Asher; his inspection was noticeably less impersonal, although equally curious. ‘It seems, mistress, that our paths must lie together for a time,’ he said coolly. ‘We have a great deal to discuss.’
Asher hesitated briefly, then nodded. ‘But not here.’
The priest gestured broadly towards the entrance. ‘There is a rest-house where we would be honoured if you would take refreshment,’ he suggested. ‘Unless you have a question for the Oracle? That is your right, mistress, for you have made no request.’
‘There’s nothing I wish to ask.’ Asher, thinking of her promise to Margit, took a last look back at the weaving mists, at the towering statue, and shivered again. The words of the Oracle seemed engraved on her heart; she knew she would never forget them.
