The Light of the Oracle

by Victoria Hanley

  “ Yes.” He bowed to her, one arm tucked behind his back, raising a foot as he straightened, putting the foot down gently while lifting both arms up. He finished with one hand pointing to himself and one to her. “Welcome to the stables, Bryn. May we both be wiser than manure and not step in it too often.”

  Kiran met Renchald's opaque gaze, trying not to show how uncomfortable he felt in the Master Priest's sanctum. From the wall, a tapestry of a gyrfalcon glared at him. To his left, on a pedestal, stood a heavy statue of a vulture wrought in black marble. Temple of the Oracle, where the bird of curses is second only to the gods. Kiran knew that the Temple's vulture-chosen priest had died without a replacement. Who will perform the Master Priest's curses now? he thought grimly.

  Renchald did not invite him to sit. Instead, the Master Priest sat unmoving, his green eyes boring into Kiran's. When at last he spoke, he wasted no time on pleasantries. “Alamar showed me the bow you performed today,” he said. “Ironic, isn't it, Kiran, that you would use what you learned from him to insult him as a teacher?”

  Kiran didn't answer.

  “If you had a grain of wisdom,” the Master Priest went on, “ you would know that unspoken words are even more important than words said aloud.”

  Kiran folded his arms.

  “Protocol can be a siege or a sanctuary, a weapon or a peace offering, depending upon how you use it.” Renchald's voice became louder, yet he didn't change expression. “The role you've been playing—that of un-teachable oaf—cannot continue. I didn't take you from the slums of the Eastland to allow you to flout the customs of the Temple. Don't forget, I can easily drop you back in the gutter where I found you.”

  Kiran's fingers curled within his palms, tension spreading from his arms into his back and down his legs.

  The slums of the Eastland. Why did it bother him to hear such words? They were true. When the Master Priest had discovered him at the age of twelve, he had been living in the slums. With his father, Eston, a man overly fond of whisky. Kiran had too many memories of his father—unable to stand, being kicked aside by lords who might have given him a place training fine horses if he had only been sober.

  Eston had eagerly accepted Renchald's offer to take Kiran off his hands. Kiran's beloved mother had died years earlier in a riding accident, so there was no one else to consult.

  “To atone for your disrespect,” continued the Master Priest, “ you will make a bow of perfect apology to Alamar during every protocol class until he releases you from the punishment.”

  It doesn't matter, Kiran told himself, squeezing his fists behind his back. It's only a gesture. Means nothing to me.

  He bowed, and the red threads of the carpet matched the color of his anger.

  Six

  Alessandra, Queen of Sorana, and Princess Zorienne, heir to the throne, arrived at the Temple of the Oracle and were installed in a sumptuous suite of rooms in the guest wing. During the previous weeks the senior handmaids and acolytes had been cleaning and trimming and cooking in a frenzied bustle of preparation.

  Not only for the queen. Another suite had been made ready for Lord Bartol Errington and his son, Raynor, a remarkably handsome youth eighteen years old.

  “Why has the queen come here?” Bryn asked Kiran as they filled feed buckets.

  She couldn't quite read the look he gave her; it almost appeared that he pitied her. “Prophecies,” he said. He put a hand on her shoulder. Bryn was so distracted by his warmth she had trouble listening to his words. “You know the Princess Zorienne is ill?” he asked.

  “I heard the rumor, yes.”

  Kiran took his hand away. “Perhaps the queen hopes to learn of a cure for her daughter.”

  Bryn shook oat flakes into a bucket. “Dawn says that if Princess Zorienne dies, the succession will pass to Raynor Errington.” She looked up to see him nod. “I don't understand why. Even Clea only claims to be a distant cousin to the queen.”

  “True. No close cousins, though, you see.”

  How did he know? “Why wouldn't Lord Errington be the king, then?”

  Kiran shrugged. “Errington enjoys the position he has now, ruling over the Eastland. He stepped aside in favor of his son.”

  “So Clea's brother could become King of all Sorana?” A shudder passed over Bryn, causing some oats to pour onto the floor.

  Kiran helped her scoop them up. She could feel his breath on her neck. “ Yes, and the gods help us all if that should happen.”

  She would have asked him a hundred questions, but just then the Sendral of Horses appeared, to discuss caring for the train of mares the queen had brought with her, and their conversation was cut short.

  Bryn entered the great room of the Oracle's central altar for the first time, trailing Dawn closely. Every member of the Temple had been ordered to assemble in formal welcome to Queen Alessandra.

  The domed ceiling alone took Bryn's breath away, so high it seemed to rival the heavens. It had been plated with gold, its centerpiece a ruby-colored design of stained glass laid in the shape of the keltice. Seven stained-glass windows reached from the floor midway up the gently sloping walls. Above each window hung a tapestry, intricately woven, depicting the face of a god or goddess.

  The detailed weavings were uncanny. Bryn hadn't realized a tapestry could show the chill of Keldes, Lord of Death, so well. The face of Solz, Lord of Light, looked radiant as the sun, the heavenly body he ruled. Opposite Solz, across the vast chamber of the Temple, was Monzapel, Goddess of the Moon, her distant smile cool and silver. Ellerth's tapestry showed the Earth Goddess among flowers that seemed to wave as if a breeze blew upon them. Winjessen, winged Lord of Thought, appeared ready to fly. Ayel, Lord of Battle, lifted a gleaming sword. Beside him, Vernelda, Goddess of Justice and Love, smiled compassionately.

  “Stop gawking, rat.” A sharp finger jabbed Bryn's ribs; she turned to catch Clea's spiteful glance. She quickened her pace, following Dawn into one of the tiered rows of pews. To her relief, Clea continued past, all the way down to the front. Of course. She's descended from King Zor.

  The Temple filled with hundreds of people. Everyone continued to stand. There were a few hushed words, quickly swallowed by silence. Bryn gazed at the great altar: a tall, wide slab of pearly marble shaped into an oval. Upon it stood seven large round silver bowls filled with clear water, and seven burning candles set in finely worked silver holders. Each holder was adorned with a silver keltice.

  The Master Priest stood on the dais to one side of the altar, his robes looking as if they'd been sculpted of stone, the gray streak in his hair standing out starkly. Bryn could no longer fathom that this same man had been in a stonecutter's cottage.

  On the other side of the altar stood the First Priestess of the Oracle. Her red robe had gold embroidery at the collar and cuffs; nearly as much gold as Renchald wore, and she was close to the same height as the Master Priest. Her skin was a rich olive hue; her face, beneath a stately crown of dark braids, showed a powerful calm.

  Then, from a door in the side wall near the altar, the Queen of Sorana emerged. Brocade robes swathed her and she wore a ruby-studded crown. Though not as tall as the First Priestess, she moved with grace and dignity as she came up the steps of the dais alone.

  The Master Priest received her with a deep welcoming bow. “The Oracle is pleased that Your Majesty was able to journey safely to the Temple,” he intoned. “We are proud to continue our history of serving rulers with the Oracle's prophecies.”

  Queen Alessandra inclined her head. She turned to face the assemblage. “I greet you, my good people.”

  And there in that sacred place, before the altar of the Oracle, a spontaneous cheer rose up. Dignified priests and priestesses allowed their affection for Alessandra to burst forth along with that of the youngest handmaids and acolytes. Hundreds of joyful voices united in homage from the people to their beloved queen.

  She bowed to them, at which their cheers swelled even more.

  The queen extended a hand t
oward the door left open by the altar. A tall young woman wearing a light, shining crown stepped forth to join her on the dais. “My daughter, Princess Zorienne, here to pay her respects to the Oracle,” Alessandra said, smiling regally.

  Zorienne was too pale, her figure too thin, but her eyes were bright, her bow graceful. She too received the adulation of the gathering.

  Close on her heels, disdaining to wait for the queen to summon him, strode Raynor Errington, dressed like a prince in gold and purple satin. He bounded up the steps. His father hastened behind him.

  Cheers died away almost instantly. Silence fell.

  The Master Priest hurried to fill the void. “We are honored by your presence here,” he said, bowing very formally.

  He called for prayers then, to support long life for Her Majesty, Queen of Sorana, and for Zorienne, the crown princess. The members of the Temple stood with clasped hands, lips moving to join his entreaty to the gods. Voices lapped over one another, muffling the meaning of the words.

  Bryn's head ached, and she felt a little dizzy.

  To steady herself, she focused on the embroidery that covered the First Priestess's robe. As she gazed, the golden threads seemed to float out of the fabric and come toward her. A soft wind was carrying them, a wind that had traveled the length of the world before coming to this place.

  Whispers stirred in Bryn's ears. One word was clear, spoken in a voice that rang through her mind like a bell. Prophecy.

  The wind increased, grew louder, whistling now, taking hold of her, bringing with it a storm of change. Oh yes, change would come, blowing sorrowfully across the land. Not only for Bryn, but for the Queen of Sorana.

  Bryn's arm lifted, her finger pointing at Princess Zorienne. “Beware his death,” she whispered. “His sleeping death.”

  Bryn felt a hand shake her arm. She snapped back to normal awareness and realized she was the only one standing and that Dawn was tugging at her frantically. She fell into the pew, gasping as if all her air had been taken.

  What she had seen and heard bewildered her. Sleeping death? His sleeping death? But who was he? And why was it Princess Zorienne who should beware?

  Dawn quailed when Nirene yanked her and Bryn aside after the long ceremony with the queen was finally over. The lines around Nirene's mouth were drawn taut. Her ire seemed to fill the alcove where they stood. “When I made you a duenna, Dawn, I assumed you knew the basic protocol for an important ceremony.” She whirled upon Bryn. “Standing when all others were seated! What did you mean by such a display?”

  “I'm truly sorry.” Bryn was pale, her golden-brown eyes haunted.

  “And did you speak as well?” Nirene demanded.

  Bryn looked as if she would start gasping again.

  “Did she speak?” Nirene asked Dawn.

  Dawn shook her head vehemently. She'd been near enough to hear that Bryn had spoken—muttering something about death and pointing at Princess Zorienne. Dawn had grabbed her arm instantly, and hoped no one else had heard; she hated to lie, but if she told Nirene what had happened, there would be no living with it. “No, Sendrata. She was having trouble breathing. That's all.”

  “This is the most sacred ground in Sorana,” Nirene hissed. “ You are here to serve the gods, not to show your impertinence.” She narrowed snapping eyes at Dawn. “A duenna is responsible for the conduct of her ward. To remind you of your duty, both of you will clean the handmaid latrines before the morning gong until the summer solstice.” She frowned severely at Bryn. “I have my eye on you, girl. If you break the rules so shamelessly again, I'll find worse chores for you than cleaning latrines.”

  Dawn bowed apology. She had to nudge Bryn with an elbow before Bryn followed her lead.

  Nirene ignored their bows, a deliberate insult. “See to her training” was all she said as she swept out of the alcove.

  Bryn's cheeks were flushed now. “I'm so sorry,” she said.

  “It's plain you'll be a world of trouble to me,” Dawn told her.

  * * *

  That evening, in one of the sanctuary rooms dedicated to the Oracle, the Master Priest met with Queen Alessandra and the First Priestess.

  Temple guards and queen's soldiers stood outside the door, but inside they were alone. Alessandra stood upright beside the seven candles burning on the small altar to the gods. Her fingers trembled slightly as she received her scroll of prophecy from Renchald's hand.

  “Please, Your Majesty,” he said, “be seated.” He guided her gently to a chair.

  The queen looked up at him, dark eyes very alert. “ You know, of course, what the prophecy says.”

  Renchald nodded. “If you wish to read it in private, we will leave you, my queen.”

  Alessandra held the scroll prayerfully. “Thank you, but you may stay.” She unbound the scroll, broke the heavy Temple seal, held the message close to the candlelight.

  Renchald had penned the message himself, as he did all important prophecies. Every word of it was engraved on his mind:

  This prophecy proceeds from the Oracle's light.

  Your Majesty's daughter, Zorienne, will not live to reign over Sorana. Your Highness is advised to prepare the way for the next in line to the throne.

  Brought from my pen before the gods, Renchald, Master Priest of the Temple of the Oracle.

  Alessandra finished reading. Long, long, she gazed silently into the flames.

  At last she rose.

  “Thank you for consulting the Oracle on Zorienne's behalf,” she said. She fixed them both with her intelligent eyes. “I depend upon the sacred trust of the Temple not to reveal what this prophecy contains.”

  “Our trust will never be broken, Your Majesty,” the Master Priest assured her. The First Priestess murmured agreement.

  “This message shall be burned,” Alessandra told them. “I am still the queen. I will depart here tomorrow. And I shall fight for a different future than the one you have predicted.”

  A week later, Bryn woke from a dream of following a silvery plume of thistledown through unknown hallways in the Temple.

  She sat up. She knew where she was—in her bed in the handmaids' hall with other girls sleeping nearby, each behind a separate curtain. Her own curtain should have made her bed very dark, but light hovered around her.

  Even more peculiar, a bright wisp of thistledown above her head was at the center of the light. Bryn reached out to see if it was real or merely a remnant of her dream. The thistledown drifted away from her fingers toward the edge of the curtain.

  In her cotton nightgown, she slipped from her bed, her bare feet gripping the stone floor. Sliding through the curtain, she saw, shimmering several yards in front of her, the thistledown.

  “It wants me to follow,” she whispered. When she took a few steps, the thistledown moved too. She followed it past the curtained row of beds to the door leading to the main hallway. When she pressed on the door, it opened. She expected to be stopped there, for Dawn had assured her that guards always stood by that door. However, the hallway beyond was empty except for torches flickering in sconces on the dark walls.

  Bryn hesitated, watching the plume of thistledown, wondering how it could be brighter than fire and moonlight; it made the torches appear dim and the moonlight streaming in through the skylights seem pale and thin. She should go back to her bed. She could almost hear her mother's voice berating the gods: “Why have you given me such an unnatural daughter?”

  The girl took a deep breath. Why should she doubt what was happening to her? She was in the Temple of the Oracle. Her mother did not rule here, Renchald did. She recalled his words the day they met: “Those who serve the Oracle see what others miss.”

  Bryn walked forward, pursuing the glow that drifted purposefully down the hallway. She thought it strange that she saw no one as she continued on, for the thistledown led through many corridors, deep into the Temple. Though she kept expecting to come across a guard or at least a senior acolyte, no one appeared. She crept down winding stairwa
ys of stone; as she gradually descended, the floors grew chillier. The thistledown glided in front of her, shedding light.

  She came to yet another stairway; its narrow steps led straight down. At the bottom, a blind trench of stone ended in a silver door.

  With the thistledown hovering close, Bryn examined the door. Its metal was wrought into twisting patterns around a large keltice at the center. Hesitantly, she touched the keltice. Her fingers pulsed.

  The door swung open, silent as Bryn's feet on the smooth floor. She entered a warm chamber that seemed to be formed out of the same light that shone from her thistledown. Pure and bright, the light cascaded over hundreds of symbols she didn't recognize, and flowed across the softly domed ceiling and over the clean floor.

  Bryn bent to the floor, wondering how stone could be so radiant. Her father and brothers had spoken of a stone known as alabaster. Was this floor made of alabaster? Was the entire chamber made of it?

  Kneeling, she felt the chamber's brilliance pour through her, dazzling her mind. The longer she kneeled, the brighter the light shone in and around her.

  When at last she stood, she felt as if her spirit had been altered by a power utterly beyond her understanding. I'll never be the same again.

  She noticed a couch upholstered in gold velvet next to the wall, and wondered how she had missed seeing it before. She sidled up to it. The cushion felt softer than anything she had ever touched, as if spun from golden flower petals.

  She was suddenly tired, terribly so. She knew she should leave again now, find the thistledown, let it guide her back to the handmaids' hall. But how inviting the couch was; surely it wouldn't hurt to lie down for a little while, just until she felt able to climb the stairs again.

  Bryn fell asleep almost instantly after lying on the golden couch, and began to dream vividly.

  A roar filled her ears. A strong wind was tumbling her toward an enormous faceless rock. She couldn't stop her headlong rush or even guide her own direction in any way.

  She sped toward the wall of rock, extending her arms to brace herself against the impact that would come. As her hands hit it, the rock dissolved into grains of sand. Her arms sank into the softening stone, and her body followed, driven by the forceful wind. Sand coated her as she passed through it.