by Lesley Smith
“It’s all right,” Eirian soothed, gently stroking her slick forehead. “You’re safe with us.”
Eirian knew in her gut that this girl was another true High Oracle, and the second denied her rightful place by Jashri. An old vision lingered, images of possible futures crystallised into reality by the passing of time and darkening of hearts.
Since she had stepped down, the visions had come more frequently to others. The remaining oracles kept quiet, of course, ensuring the dreams were recorded and passed to the Companion; glad that not even Jashri had the power to consult The Codex of the River.
Jashri was no longer listening, and so Aia had taken to whispering in the ears of more people across Reskha. Even Eirian herself had glimpsed it, sometimes a face flashed by or a voice came in her dreams, and she knew Saiara before the girl had even stepped into the Oracles’ Tower.
Another girl’s life ruined, another attendant banished, and all so Jashri could hold on to her throne. Eirian quietly shook her head and prayed that Saiara would be the one to end this madness. It had gone on way too long, and even the people outside the orders were beginning to sense something amiss, however much the temple might try to convince them it was business as usual.
“We can do no more. She will sleep and wake when she is ready. You were the same when you came, and only time will decide if she will live.” Eirian said. “I’m going to sit and meditate for a little while. Will you watch her, Shaari?”
“Of course, Mother. I’ll call the guardians for you if she wakes.”
“Thank you, child.”
Casparias was in shock. He would never make Saiara her staff, never stand beside her as her attendant, never watch her ascension or wear the blue. He was led back to the dormitories by two of the High Chamberlain’s guards, though they reminded him more of lackeys than anything else.
“Pack your things. Take only what is absolutely necessary,” the man closest to him said, voice as blank as his face.
“Where am I going?” He knew, but it felt like fighting the inevitable.
“You must make your way to Danshu. We’ve sent a messenger bird ahead, and one of the brothers will meet you.”
“You’re sending me to the Order of the For-” He swallowed the word that could be read two ways. This was not the time for the unofficial and, even spoken, they would hear that in his words. “The Retired Ones?”
“As Jashri decreed, so must it be. The girl is an oracle, so you, her attendant, you must go to the Order.”
“And if she is to take Jashri’s place?”
A smirk, and Caspa was suddenly furious, but he bit his tongue and ate his words. The man’s tone was as sharp as a knife.
“Then I’m sure you’ll be recalled, but for now, humour us, and do as you are bidden, boy.”
Caspa, as a foundling child adopted by the Ishveian Order, had little by way of possessions. His family had perished in the Great Quake, killed when the Artisan’s Quarter collapsed in a hail of fire and rubble. The only thing he remembered of them was his father’s face as he shoved him over a wall into waiting arms and his own name.
He packed up his sketchbook, the inks and styli, and found the one thing he couldn’t leave the temple without. When he and Saiara had decided to be dedicated as maiden and attendant, Caspa had bought two matching lockets: in the first he had placed a self-portrait drawn with the help of a piece of polished glass and had given it to Saiara. In the second, the one he usually wore, was an image of her and a lock of her hair.
Caspa pulled it over his head, and the cold weight of the metal reassured him. Whenever he went, Saia would be with him, and he with her. There was some peace in that. Despite the hand life was dealing them both, in a way, they would never truly be apart.
He placed his things into a knapsack reverently, like they were holy icons. His clothes and sandals were temple issue and didn’t truly belong to him, so he swapped them out for travellers robes: an Edoi hakashari, walking boots, and a long fine-weave shirt made from elokoi silk. All gifted to him by someone or other whose name he couldn’t recall.
Caspa wondered how many people were waiting for the announcement of a new High Oracle. The gifts had begun flowing in, and half of them were unopened; they weren’t for him, they were for the new High Oracle’s Attendant. That was not Casparias the Foundling and so he had only opened the odd one or two addressed by name, specifically, to him.
He was glad of the practical gifts; they were meant to be used on the High Oracle’s first progress around Reskha. She and her chosen attendant would visit all the major cities as well as the Forest of the Lightflies, meditating at Ishvei’s Rest and stepping into the sacred caves in the Canhei Basin. There was even an Edoi canteen for bringing back sacred water from the River Sani. The water was believed to grant inspiration to oracles who drank it, and it was the attendant’s duty to ensure she always had some to hand.
He took the canteen made of baelish skins tanned in the sun of the Southern Desert. It might come in handy, and he tied it to the twisting branches of another gift; a callow-wood walking staff, one of two matching ones carved for oracle and attendant from a sapling grown from of the sacred trees at Ishvei’s Rest.
Caspa slipped through silent halls as if invisible. He made for the gardens, for the one place where Darus wouldn’t suspect him to be. He didn’t want to leave, not yet, but he wasn’t done here, something called to him.
Someone.
“Who's there?”
Silently swearing, Caspa stopped dead, the water in his canteen sloshing so loudly it betrayed his precise position. Seeing the woman in Aia’s blue, the cloth old and patched in places, the dye faded from crisp to dull, he fell to his knees. “Forgive me, Your Grace.”
“Get up, boy.” The woman’s voice was kindly. “You’re him, aren’t you? Saiara’s beloved. Casparias, wasn’t it?”
“Aye,” he answered. “And you are Eirian the Wise, beloved of the Edoi.”
“The Edoi. You would remember that,” she said. “Come and sit, boy. This bower offers a good place to hide from Darus’ minions. I can only offer you sanctuary for a few moments, and perhaps a little peace. I can hear the worry in your voice.”
“Is Saia alright?”
Eirian sighed. “She will be. In time.”
“Can I see her?”
“You would be stopped, and Jashri is looking for any excuse to be rid of you. Banishment was the easier of the two options but she will consider the second, if pushed.”
“Why?”
“Because she holds to the old belief that Aia grants visions in the moment of climax; that sex and inspiration are interconnected, that an oracle needs someone to rely on, to share their great burden. It’s true, of course, but there are other ways as well: dreams, trances, meditation and, of course, her voice in the back of our minds. Visions are not limited, just as Aia is not. We have just learned to keep quiet when they come upon us,” Eirian said. “Where there is love, there is the grace of Aia. You must remember that.”
“So that’s it?”
Eirian patted his arm. “Let me tell you a story, Caspa, about a girl named Lenara, a daughter of the Bashaaki.”
Caspa blinked. “You?”
“Me, once and long ago,” Eirian said wistfully, misty blue eyes broken by Aia’s gift to her. “Before I became her servant. What do you know of the Edoi?”
“They are travellers. They are the blood which moves around the veins of Reshka,” Caspa said. “Once, long ago, they were called the Plague Carriers and it was only through—so the old tales tell us—the actions of the Bard and the Healer that the Edoi found safe-haven on the isle of Abbia.
“Lenara was born there, in the City of Tents.”
“You speak as if she were some other person,” Caspa said.
“That’s how it works when you take the blue; when Aia offers you inner sight in exchange for your eyes. You become a new person with a different name, but the memory of the past remains,” Eirian said. “When I was
born, it was a different age. There were many seers across the world, and only some belonged to the Aian order. My greatmother foresaw my destiny on the day a stupid accident took my vision; when I got to close to a forge and burning stream nearly destroyed my eyes. She sent me to Aiaea because she knew I would be needed here.”
“And the tale?”
“I succeeded Iasei the Just during a time of great uncertainty. I was the first Edoi in several generations to be called to Aia’s service, and suddenly I found myself with great power. I commanded millions of souls who would do anything I asked of them. Aia whispered caution, she bid me temper my power with compassion. I was not the ruler of the people, but their servant, as all High Oracles are. This is a lesson Jashri has failed to heed in recent years, and Saiara is not the first rightful voice she has denied.”
He stopped, thinking of the Companion’s warning. “Lyse.”
“And how you have heard of her? Hm?” Eirian asked, and he knew she was not expecting an answer. “Aia lets us make mistakes so we can learn from them. Jashri has not, and I don’t think the fate of the world will be left to one who fails to act.”
“What will happen?”
“There are lines. The future is like a dry riverbank during a flash flood, sometimes the water will follow the route it has kept for centuries and, sometimes, just sometimes, the sheer force of the water, the power of the current, carves its own path into unknown places,” Eirian said. “I foresaw burdens…Saiara has a role to play and so do you. You are needed, but your path will not cross hers again. Not in this life—but you will be reunited. You and she circle each other as Kaiene does Ishvei’s World.”
“You believe we will live again, after this life?”
“I remember too much to disbelieve. I’m old, my boy, and I have lived many times, on other worlds as well as this one. I have earned the gift of memory, but it is not a sweet thing. With the reassurance comes a bitter tang,” Eirian said. “You and she will meet again, though it will be some time before you can savour a full life together; yet each of your existences will be all the sweeter because of your meetings, even the briefest ones. Many souls spend lifetimes without ever meeting their true opposite.”
“Opposites?” He had never heard the word before.
“You are connected, a piece of you in her, a piece of her in you. You are drawn to each other by bonds that cannot be cut by Jashri, or any other mortal,” Eirian said. “The future will not be easy, Caspa, but you will walk with her together again in another time and place, though I caution you not to lose heart if you only see her for an instant.”
“You there!”
Caspa flinched, feeling like a child caught thieving from the market.
The Guardians in their livery, Jashri’s sigil proud against the blue, quickened their pace. They looked harsh and then stopped, seeing Eirian. “Forgive us, Your Grace, but we must take him as we are commanded.”
“I know, Tommen, it’s all right. He will go with you, willingly, won’t you, Caspa?”
“Aye, your Grace,” Caspa said. “I wish only to follow the High Oracle’s wishes. As she commands me, so I do as I am bidden.”
“Then come. We have been instructed to escort you to the gates of the city.”
“All right,” he said, standing and looking back at Eirian. “I’m ready.”
“One thing more, my son.” Eirian leant close, and for a moment it was not the old seer speaking but something else, something greater. “When your body tells you to run, when the water comes, you must stay where you stand and have faith. You must listen to Aia, do you understand? Run and you will drown, stay and you might survive.”
Saiara woke naturally and, for a little while it was as if she was still dreaming.
For a moment she imagined the sun on her face, could see Thaeos’ warm light on the inside of her closed eyelids, but it was illusion. The memory was conjured by expectation. She was lying on one of the comfortable beds in Danae’s temple with Caspa’s arms around her waist, his tendrils inside of her and his breath on her neck. Then reality sank its cold claws into her, and she realised it was nothing but a dream as she woke on a cold pallet on a hard stone floor.
“Saiara?”
The voice sounded familiar. It was gentle, and only a little older than she was.
Saiara coughed, spat out the taste of death from her mouth, and sat up. “Where am I?”
The girl spoke slowly. “You’re in the Oracles’ Tower, in the lower levels where the seeresses live. My name is Shaari.”
“I remember you, from the….hearing or whatever it was,” Saiara said. “You’re an oracle, aren’t you Shaari?”
“I was called three years ago.” Shaari spoke with a soft Fenoi accent, and there was a sadness in her speech. The kind which comes from a wound that has only recently scarred over. “I understand your pain. You went into shock, but we’ve cared for you as best we can. Now, can you wait alone for a moment? I will go and summon Mother Eirian from her meditations.”
Saiara agreed. “Thank you.”
By the time Shaari returned, Saiara was fully awake. Her linen shift was soaked, but she had pulled herself up and felt around, making out four walls that defined her narrow cell as being only a little larger than a death-casket. When she moved the strip of cloth from her eyes, she could see light through the grey gloom. It made her eyes burn and her head ache, but she was glad of the small mercy.
Saiara felt her way to the door, finding it left open a little. The wood was rough under her fingers, the metal of the latch cold and sharp. Everything was too exposed, and in her blindness, Saiara wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or bad. She felt the floor under her bare toes, cold stone that had been smoothed by thousands of feet forcing it into submission. Then she tripped and fell.
Hands, two sets of them, helped her up. “Saiara-child?”
“I’m all right,” she said, grateful for the support.
The new voice was older, and she recognised it as belonging to another oracle: Eirian, the one whom Jashri had replaced. Saiara knew the oldest of the oracles was Iasei, but she was closer to the River than she was to life. In essence Eirian ruled, even if this forced her to be subservient to Darus.
She was suddenly terrified Eirian was going to be like Jashri, like Darus. “Please, Mother, I ask only your compassion.”
“Hush, child, don’t be afraid. You’re safe here, no one will harm you.”
“But Jashri…”
“Does not rule here. I do.” Eirian hugged her. “Now, come with us and we’ll get some decent food into you. Then Shaari will show you around our little domain.”
Sitting at a stone table with stone benches on either side, Saiara was delighted to find warm pillow bread and pitchers of ice-cold water. The smell awoke her stomach and she ate as if this simple meal were the finest in all of Ishvei’s World.
A voice broke through the perfect moment, caustic and filled with anger: “So there is another one of you then?”
Saiara looked up, towards the sound of the voice, but Eirian was having none of it. “Hsia! Show more respect!”
“Why? That’s another pallet I have to change, another set of clothes to be pressed and folded.” Hsia spat and Saiara realised she was a servant—their servant—and she obviously didn’t relish her vocation.
Eirian stood, and Saiara heard the words, even if she didn’t believe then. “Because this young woman is your new High Oracle.”
Saiara could almost imagine the girl looking from her to Eirian and back again. “Then what, pray, is she doing in the Caves of the Damned?”
“Get out!” Eirian sounded furious and something clattered to the floor.
“How dare you!” Hsia sounded more in pain than anything else, and Saiara guessed from the noise that Eirian must have slapped her. The sound made her flinch; it made her wish she could see so she could run and hide.
“Mother!” Shaari sounded shocked.
Eirian apologised instantly. “Forgive me, Hsia.
I shouldn’t have done that.”
The servant’s voice was filled with pain and fury. “Let’s see how you feel when your meals cease, when your pitchers run dry!”
After a moment and a cascade of footsteps walking away from them, Eirian returned to her seat and said regretfully, “I shouldn’t have done that. Aia forgive me. I’m sorry you had to hear that, Saiara.”
“Who is she?”
“One of our servants,” Shaari explained. “Hsia was Darus’ plaything and when he broke her, he cast her here, far from his sight. She has suffered ever since, and finds her solace by taking it out on us.”
“This is not a happy place,” Eirian agreed. “It was once a haven where we could be seers in the truest sense of the worlds, now it is our prison.”
“But the oracles…you’re so respected—”
“We’re a thorn in Jashri’s side. A reminder that being High Oracle is temporary, and she should have passed the baton long ago,” Eirian said. “We are a dying order, Saiara, and your arrival here is not the blessing it should have been.”
“A punishment…” Saiara was aghast. “For listening to Aia.”
“Yes,” Shaari answered, bitterness in her voice. “To snuff out the flame of home, to break us so we toe the line.”
Saiara didn’t speak, instead she quietly chewed her pillow bread and wondered what kind of nightmare she had fallen into. Was escape even possible?
Darkness
If you succumb to fear, you will be eaten alive and not even Aia can save you.
The writings of Kaiene the Blessed, first Oracle of Aia.
Jashri dreamed. In her dream she was not the High Oracle, not the leader of a world, but a simple potter’s daughter who lived in the depths of the desert in one of the many fertile hamlets which snaked across the dunes and comprised the fabled Oasis Road.
She had not been Jashri then, that name had been bestowed upon her later; a blinded wretch who wished only to die but had to live, to lead people who declared she was their High Oracle. Her mother had named her for the cries of a blue dennabird which had been seen in the skies the morning of her birth, an omen, the priests said. That only became a bitter irony when Jashri had found herself an unwilling leader years later.