by Gaelen Foley
The one thing she really couldn’t say was whether the Almighty would send down divine retribution to punish the whole kingdom on account of King Baynard’s offenses. The maker of the universe was not one to be trifled with, after all. He was patient, long-suffering, and kind, but like any king, he would only tolerate so many insults.
It was frightening to contemplate what kind of fully deserved scourge he could bestow upon the kingdom if he chose to turn his back on them and leave them to their folly. Without his protection, they’d be left wide-open to any sort of evil—plague, fire, war. But they’d have brought it on themselves…
When Thaydor came out from the inner courtyard at the heart of the temple, his brow was furrowed. He looked a bit confused and more than a little annoyed. Wrynne did not stop to talk to him, however, as the assistant nodded to her and beckoned from the doorway.
She went right over, put her parchment in the base of another empty censer, which the woman held up, then followed her across the quiet stone corridor. Through another Gothic arched doorway, the priestess gestured to her to proceed into the center courtyard.
Wrynne went.
It was common knowledge that most oracles went quite mad on account of all their talking with the gods. But the middle-aged woman seated on a stool in the middle of the round, white-pillared colonnade did not look too terribly insane, just a little weary and glassy-eyed and somewhat unkempt. She was older than her assistant but wore the same uniform of white robes and ringlets piled atop her head with a bandeau. Only her hair was wilder, gray and frizzed out in all directions.
She did not make eye contact as Wrynne sat down on the stool across from her. Meanwhile, her helper brought the censer over and hung it on the low metal shepherd’s hook planted in the ground before the oracle.
“Are you ready?” the assistant murmured to the older woman, who nodded, staring fiercely at nothing in the most disturbing fashion.
She appeared already half in trance, perhaps from having just given Thaydor his predictions.
Wrynne was dying to find out what sort of prophecy or guidance he’d been given, but with her own answers about to be revealed, she nervously watched the process unfold.
The priestess assisting the oracle murmured prayers of intercession under her breath as she took a long, slender twig for a match and lit it from the coals burning in the golden brazier beside the oracle’s chair. Cupping her hand to protect the tiny flame at the end of the match, she transferred the sacred fire to the contents of the censer and set Wrynne’s parchment alight. She quickly replaced the bronze lid of the censer and blew out the match, bowed, and then withdrew.
It took a moment for the parchment to start burning well, but then the smoke began to rise up through the sunburst shape of holes and slits in the lid. The oracle stared at the smoke as it spiraled upward, twisted and gathered and wafted into a small cloud, only to disperse and drift away. Wrynne’s heart pounded as she waited to learn what the oracle was seeing in the ever-shifting shapes of the smoke. What Ilios was telling her.
“Yes, yes…” the prophetess mumbled to herself. “And then…?”
She narrowed her piercing eyes, leaned closer, tilted her head to the right and the left, searching the smoke for its secrets.
Wrynne was ready to burst. “What do you—”
“Shh! Don’t speak.” The oracle blinked hard and then stared again at the smoke. “You will betray him.”
“What? No,” Wrynne said. “Who? Ilios? Never—”
“Your husband,” she whispered. “The golden one.”
Wrynne turned white, staring at the woman. “Not possible.”
That was the problem with prophecy. Sometimes it brought news you couldn’t bear to believe. The last thing in the world you’d ever thought you’d hear.
Heart pounding, she strove to press past the horror of the woman’s words. “How can I avoid it?” she asked quickly.
“Stay by his side.”
Wrynne had no time to contemplate how specifically she meant this. The smoke was fading. “What sort of betrayal?”
The oracle shook her head, gazing at the tendrils of rising gray. “I cannot see it. But you will hurt him.” She nodded. “You will hate him. Even as you love him. You alone can destroy him. You will hunger for his death.”
“You are mad,” Wrynne breathed, recoiling. “That is impossible!”
“It will be.”
“Then I will change my fate! I won’t marry him.”
“Yes, you will. Ilios commands it. You must.”
Her head was spinning. “If I refuse?”
“Then he will die at the hands of Xoltheus on the new moon. And the kingdom will fall.” The oracle said it as though Thaydor was the only thing still holding Veraidel together.
Maybe he was.
Wrynne looked away, stricken, as the last of the smoke faded upward into the sky. She looked at the seer again, on the verge of tears. “It’s my wedding day. Surely there must be one good thing you can tell me?”
The oracle made eye contact with her, but only briefly, as she leaned forward. Carefully lifting the lid of the censer, she inspected the ashes now that the smoke had stopped. She searched deeper.
Wrynne’s heart pounded as she waited for the verdict, desperate for any shred of good news.
The woman’s lined mouth twisted as she continued studying the ashes. “Ilios was pleased with your question. It shows obedience. So he leaves you a gift.”
Wrynne raised her eyebrows hopefully and waited.
The madwoman’s smile grew, and even though it was genuine, it was still rather ghastly. “Oh yes.” She nodded to herself. “I see it now…”
“Yes?”
“Tread your way with care, Daughter. If you remain on this path, the blessing I see will become, but it can still be lost. You must tell no one.”
Wrynne nodded eagerly. “I promise. What is it?”
To her surprise, the oracle reached out and grasped her shoulder with a claw-like grip and stared into her eyes. Her voice was a whisper. “You will give birth to a mighty king.”
The old woman let her go without warning, and Wrynne nearly fell off the stool, she was so shocked.
“Go. That is all. You are done!” The eccentric seer shot to her feet and, without further ado, fled out the other end of the courtyard.
Wrynne stood up, dazed. She needed a moment to gather her thoughts. She was not yet ready to face her beloved after what she had just been told.
Betray Thaydor? Never! Not me. Anyone but me. I love him…
But just in case there was some grain of truth to the oracle’s seemingly impossible words, at least she had given Wrynne the key of how to avoid it: Stay by his side.
Very well, I won’t let him out of my sight.
With that, she lifted the hem of her gown, whirled around, and marched back to rejoin him with all due haste.
He rose when he saw her coming. Wrynne rushed right into his waiting arms and slipped her own around his waist. As she pressed her cheek against his chest, she vowed to herself that she would never let anything come between them.
“How did you fare?” he murmured, wrapping his sheltering embrace around her shoulders.
She wasn’t sure what to say. It had all been rather monumental, but she wasn’t allowed to tell him much.
He tipped her chin upward with his fingertips, drawing her gaze up to meet his. “What did she say?”
“Not much,” she said cautiously, shrugging. “’Tis the will of Ilios that we marry…and I am to stay close to you.”
“Ah, I like that prophecy,” he said with a guileless smile. “It’s a lot better than mine, anyway.”
“Why? What’s wrong? Did she say something bad about your fate?” she asked quickly.
“No, not bad, just…vexing,” he answered with a mild scowl. “She said, and I quote, To restore justice to the land, you must first find the Trumpet of the Runescar Highlands.”
Wrynne blinked. “What’s th
at?”
“Not a what, it’s a who. It’s that thrice-exasperating bard, Jonty Maguire.”
“Oh…right!” Wrynne exclaimed as Thaydor turned her toward the door and steered her toward the exit, his arm draped over her shoulders. “I thought that name sounded familiar.”
“You’ve heard of him? Even so far away as Mistwood?”
“Yes, even in Mistwood,” she retorted with a smile. “Well, he is one of the most famous bards alive. What’s he got to do with anything?”
“I don’t know, but her instructions were clear. If we want to solve this, we have to track him down.”
“Any idea where to find him?”
He snorted. “Probably under the table in some disreputable tavern, cavorting with unmentionable women.”
“Oh dear,” Wrynne said in amusement as they returned to vestibule where they had left their shoes.
They put them on again.
“So he’s a wayward soul, eh? Fond of the drink?” she asked.
“Aren’t they all? Bards. Useless beggars. Sit around groaning all day about their fine feelings. And they call that work!”
“Oh, come, you don’t really mean that. I happen to know you have a secret fondness for poetry,” she whispered, “and that is also the realm of the bards. Personally, I love listening to them of an evening. They make life so much more interesting.”
“With their lies?” he asked in disdain, dropping a donation in the metal box by the door.
“They’re called stories, Thaydor.” She seized hold of his coat and drew him closer, smiling. “Don’t be such a Clank.”
“I know. You’re right,” he grumbled, leaning down to kiss her. “But I’m sorry. That chap bothers me.”
“Why?”
“Everything’s a joke to him, the arrogant jester.” He hauled the door open for her. “Why he is so sought after, I have no idea. The queen’s ladies-in-waiting weep at his silly, tragic love songs, and every knight in the barracks is continually begging the scoundrel to come along on his latest quest so the bard can witness all his derring-do and write the ballad of his deeds. Not me! I can’t stand the fellow,” he declared. “Thinks he’s funny. Such a wit. Frankly, it’s a wonder nobody’s cut out his tongue yet. All he ever does is mock everything and everyone!”
“Ah, I see. Including you, Paladin?”
“Especially me,” he grumbled as they stepped outside. “I think he enjoys testing my patience.”
Wrynne chuckled. “Well, if the oracle says the bard is this important, we had better find him.”
“I’ll see who I can get working on the task of locating the fool. He shouldn’t be that difficult to find,” he added as they walked through the cloister. “The dates and times of his performances are usually posted in advance. If he’s not in some lord’s manor house, he likes to play in pubs.”
“Hmm, I can hardly wait to meet a man who’d dare take his life in his hands by poking fun at the mighty Golden Knight,” she teased.
“Why? You do it all the time,” he retorted, and looked askance at her with a twinkle in his eyes.
From there, they hurried on to their next appointment, entering the base of the great white tower. Hopefully, the wise, old Venerables would have further advice on how they should proceed.
Wrynne was nervous about being called before this small conclave of the highest-ranking elders in the church. She had shaken hands with one of them at her graduation, but she had been only one beaming student out of hundreds that day.
Thaydor, however, looked perfectly at ease. Indeed, he already knew the way to the Solarium. He had mentioned earlier that he had been called to meetings with the Venerables on many previous occasions, due to his role as paladin. He assured her they didn’t bite.
As they approached the Solarium, a robed cleric serving as chamberlain greeted them in hushed tones outside the door. As he prepared to show them in, briefing them on protocol, Wrynne was shocked and rather terrified to hear that the Golden Master himself had popped in using a magical transport spell and was waiting with the others to receive them.
Her heart thumped at this unexpected honor. It was too much. Just as the Paladin of Ilios was elected by all the other knights to be their leader, so the Golden Master was elected by the Venerables as the best among their number. The ancient holy man’s decisions guided the entire church, just as Thaydor’s strategies guided the knights in battle.
She had never expected to be formally introduced to the chief representative of Ilios on Earth or she’d have worn her better gown. There was no time to change.
Everything was happening so fast.
Wrynne hung back shyly by the door as they were shown into the Solarium while Thaydor marched ahead toward the robed elders. He bowed to them, then knelt before the old man on the center throne and kissed his ring.
“Rise, my son. It is good to see you again, Thaydor.” The frail, white-bearded ancient clasped his hand, then frowned, slowly looking past him. “Ah, now where is your cooperatrix, hmm?”
Thaydor rose smoothly and turned, holding out his hand to her. “Wrynne?”
“Come forward, child,” the Golden Master rasped.
She smoothed her dress. Heart pounding, she joined them and followed suit, bowing to the Venerables and then kneeling to kiss the old man’s ring.
This done, she went and stood beside Thaydor in front of all of them.
“Now, then. I hear tell you both have run into a spot of trouble,” the old relic said serenely.
“Someone let a band of twenty Urmugoths into the North Gate in the hopes of getting rid of me,” Thaydor informed him. “They knew I would come. The creatures nearly killed me, but the Lady Wrynne du Mere, a Daughter of the Rose, saved me with the Kiss of Life spell.”
“Indeed? That is a powerful magic. And you went through all the pain?” the old man asked her.
Thaydor looked at her sharply.
She winced in apology. She hadn’t mentioned that.
“Yes, Your Excellency,” she said.
“And now I hear you are to marry?”
“Yes, sir,” Thaydor answered in a strong, unhesitating voice.
The Golden Master’s rheumy eyes were shrewd, his nod slow and deliberate. “Good, then. So may it be. You went to consult the oracle, yes? Do you both feel clear about the answers you received?”
They nodded, glancing at each other. Wrynne lowered her gaze to hide her conflicted reaction to the messages she had been given—one inspiring awe, the other filling her with dread. She was not allowed to share the wondrous part about their future son, and she had no desire to reveal the ludicrous assertion that one day, she’d betray the man she loved.
“As it happens,” the Golden Master said, “I have a word of knowledge for each of you, myself.”
“Thank you, sir. We are honored,” Thaydor said in earnest.
The ancient held up his bony hand. “Kneel for the blessing.”
They did.
The old man stared searchingly at the handpicked champion of their god. “Thaydor, first among the Sons of Might, you are a mortal honored even by the warrior angels of Elysium for your commitment to justice. But you are still a man, prone to all the weaknesses of the flesh. You are warned against wrath and pride and all forms of vengeance. You can and shall be angry, but remember mercy and forgiveness in the day of wrath. Do not let your just rage lead you into hatred or you will become all that you despise.”
Thaydor held his gaze, seeming to absorb the words for a moment, then lowered his head to accept the warning in humility.
“Wrynne.” The Golden Master turned his attention to her, his gaze softening. “Gentle Daughter of the Rose. You are cautioned against the weakness of dishonesty and too much love of peace. I know, child, as a softhearted healer, you cannot bear to hurt any living thing, but even a well-intentioned lie born of kindness can lead to disaster. A cure often hurts. Remember that. I see in your heart that you learned much wisdom in your hermitage—the sweetest kin
d, rooted in love. That wisdom will be needed. So do not be silent in an effort to keep the peace at any cost. Even when you know it will sting, you have a duty to speak up. Your lord may need your counsel in the future…even when he doesn’t want to hear it.”
She nodded with a murmur of gratitude.
“Bow your heads, now. I declare the Light’s brightest blessings on your match. Be joined in love forevermore. So may it be.”
“So may it be,” they both whispered, and Thaydor took her hand.
Chapter 9
Vows Unto Death
Their hands were joined once again as they stood before the altar at sunset in the chapel next to the gardens. The evening light shone through the round sunburst window at the front of the church. It burnished the brass buttons down the front of Thaydor’s ceremonial dress uniform—a belted, white, hip-length doublet over dark blue chausses and smart black boots. An ornamental sword with a jeweled hilt gleamed at his side.
Wrynne’s visit to the Daughters of the Rose chapter house had left her bedecked in a breathtaking wedding kirtle of white satin with a charming heart-shaped neckline, a lavish train, and long lace sleeves that stretched down to elegant points on her hands.
The slim-fitted gown hugged her curves but flared out below the hip in full, trailing skirts, with a slit up the front to show the sky-blue underskirt beneath. She wore a jeweled belt about her hips, and the gauzy veil that covered her head was topped with a wreath to hold it in place.
Through the wispy fabric, Thaydor could see that she wore her sable hair long and loose, flowing over her shoulders. He was simply dazzled, unable to take his eyes off her. She had walked in carrying a bouquet of red, pink, and white roses but had since set the flowers aside for this crucial moment of the ceremony.
He gently clasped her fingers as she stood beside him and, heart pounding, finished repeating the priest’s words. “I will be your shield and love you always.”
Everything was a bit of a blur.
Next Wrynne echoed the traditional promises of the bride: “I will be your water and quench your heart’s thirst all my life.”