Kiran's mind churned. I swore to help Bryn. What if this is my chance? He took a deep breath. He nodded reluctantly. “I agree. I give you my word.”
The Master Priest leaned back in his chair, face inscrutable. “Because the black swan is your choosing bird, you'll have an extraordinary aptitude for learning to link with a prophetess.”
Kiran glanced at the vulture statue, so smooth and darkly shining. He felt suddenly cold. “Which prophetess?”
“Clea Errington.”
Kiran gripped the arms of his chair.
“As her prophecy partner,” the Master Priest's relentless voice went on, “ you will have firsthand knowledge of all her clearest visions. You will see them too.”
Kiran remembered Bryn's dream of Selid. If Clea had seen that vision, the Master Priest would have been told of it instantly. Kiran ground his heel into the carpet. Clea bore watching, but the idea of linking with her mind revolted him. He crossed his arms. “Will she know my thoughts?”
“No. You have powerful inner barriers. Besides, she will not be trained to form links herself. She will have to rely on her pairing prophet for that.”
“ You promise this?”
“I promise.”
SPRING
Fourteen
Dawn and Alyce swung between them a large basket filled with food they'd wheedled from the Temple kitchens for a Velday picnic to celebrate the warmer weather. Just ahead, rays of sun played with the pond waters; a few early butterflies skimmed the air. Marvin, Jacinta, and Calden sat on a blanket spread a short way from the sandy edge of the pond. Leaning against the larch tree, Kiran watched Brock, Willow, and Bryn skipping stones. Jack explored the weeds that grew on the far banks of the pond.
Marvin stood as the two young women approached with the basket. “Food!” he called to the others. He smiled at Alyce. “And beautiful maids,” he added, taking the basket and setting it on the blanket.
Kiran lifted a pitcher sitting in the shade next to him. Pouring two glasses, he handed them to Alyce and Dawn.
“Mmm. The wine is almost good,” Dawn said, grinning.
Brock chuckled. He'd been assigned to the Temple vineyards when he first arrived. Now he clapped one hand against his chest. “ Yes, m'lady, you drink the nectar of fermented grapes that have been expertly tramped on by smelly-footed acolytes.” He lifted his own glass high. “To nectar!”
The others joined his toast, laughing.
Dawn folded herself onto the blanket. “Is anyone else hungry, or am I the only one doomed to grow forever?” She motioned to Kiran. “ You're my only hope of equality. Have some food?”
Kiran sat. “I wouldn't want you to eat alone.”
Brock dug in the basket. “Look! Not only mashed cheese pastries, but also squashed jam tarts.”
Dawn pushed him aside. “Don't you know what I mean by hungry?”
Brock threw up his hands. “ You and Kiran. Don't forget, those of us who aren't natural-born giants need to eat too.”
Rolling her eyes, Dawn replied, “There's nothing natural about being a giant, but there's something un natural about an owl-chosen boy who's never serious.”
Brock rumpled his black curls, making them stand up all over his head. “ You didn't accuse me of not being serious when I subtracted the math crown from your head, Oh Queen of Numbers.”
Dawn snorted. Brock was so endearing she enjoyed their classroom rivalry. “Watch yourself, Prince of Theorems, or you'll find it taken away again.”
She passed pastries around, and everyone began eating with gusto while Brock kept up an ongoing stream of banter.
As Kiran reached for his fourth cheese pastry, Brock punched his shoulder. “ You're a glutton, Mox. Or did the swan give you the secret gift of oafishness?”
Kiran shrugged good-naturedly. “Not so secret,” he said with his mouth full. He lifted his glass. “To oafishness.”
They clinked glasses together, guffawing.
“Look,” Bryn said, “we have company.”
Eloise and Clea, Charis and Narda led several more of the Feathers toward their picnic spot. Brock's merry expression vanished, and Kiran scowled. The two of them got to their feet and stood defensively in front of their friends as the Feathers approached.
Clea and Eloise stopped a few feet away from Kiran and Brock, their friends behind them like maids of a court. “Hello, Kiran,” Clea said, stepping forward. She put a hand on his chest, drawing a circle with her fingers. “We're going to have a picnic. Join us?”
“Just eaten,” Kiran answered, his scowl deepening.
Clea smiled seductively. “Maybe you'd like to see what else we have besides food.” She put her other hand on his arm, squeezing. “Good company.”
Kiran lifted her hand off his chest, removed her other hand from his arm. “I expect my dog will be here soon,” he said. “I doubt he'd enjoy your company.” The freckly patches on his face darkened as he reached into his pocket. He brought out a wad of blue cord. Catching up Clea's hand, he thrust the wadded sash into it. “This belongs to you.” He wiped his hands on his shirt.
Clea studied the bunched-up silk. “What are you saying?” She widened her eyes innocently.
“Don't pretend with me,” Kiran said through clenched teeth. His fists bunched.
She gave a little shrug as if he were incomprehensible, then turned gracefully, her silk robe swirling. She linked her arm through Eloise's. They moved away, the other Feathers following.
Kiran stared after them as they disappeared behind a knoll.
Brock slapped Kiran lightly on the back and then dropped onto the blanket. “Have a jam tart, Mox.”
The furious heat in Kiran's eyes died down. He rejoined his friends and took a tart. “To oafishness,” he said.
Across the Lyden Desert, Selid waved to Lance as he headed out through the gate of their new home in Tunise. Lance, going by the name of Glenn, had joined the carpenters' guild; he had all the work he wanted. Buildings were springing up in expanding districts, and improvements being made in the older sections of the city.
Selid was known as Lorena now. She cautiously acted as a scribe again, but only in service to the poor, providing her skills to them in exchange for whatever they could give in return: handfuls of lentils, perhaps a potato or an egg, but most often simply earnest goodwill.
Selid went into her workroom. She stood in the middle of the floor, breathing the fragrance of cedar and pine. This place soothed her heart. It seemed built not only of wood, but also of Lance's love. He'd created a slanted writing desk for her. He'd even made a mosaic along the walls out of chips of oak, mahogany, and maple.
Selid gathered ink, quill, and parchment. She put a threadbare scarf over her head. She set out on foot for the impoverished district known as Scat Alley.
She reached the tea shop where she read or wrote letters for the uneducated poor. The owner of the shop called himself Sir Chance, “patron of the unlucky,” and had named his establishment the Little Best. Sir Chance devoted his enormous girth to spreading cheer and his brawny arms to keeping order. He kept a great kettle of soup warm, doling out generous portions to anyone who could spare the small payment he asked. He replenished the soup continually by flinging unrecognizable scraps into the kettle, stirring, tasting, and then adding pinches of flavor from his spice kegs. He brewed strong tea in vats and served it in large steaming mugs along with buns the size of platters.
“Lorena!” he called heartily when Selid entered. “Hungry, m'dear?”
She never bothered to tell him no. He would urge food upon her whether she arrived empty or full. She submitted quietly to being plied with soup, tea, and bun.
“Ginette!” yelled Chance. “Scribe's here.” He pointed a beefy finger at Selid.
A woman drew near Selid's table. Though her hair was gray, her expression was that of a hopeful child. She fumbled in the folds of her ragged skirt and brought forth a dingy parchment. “From my son in the queen's capital city,” she said, sliding
it toward Selid.
“ You'd like me to read it?”
“Please, ma'am.” Her mouth quivered with eager anticipation.
Selid smoothed the creased parchment. She read aloud:
“My dear Mother,
I have found a scribe to write you so here is my news of Zornowel City. I arrived at your brother the draper's. We fill orders every day, all manner of curtains. You would love to feel the brocade and the silk. We have an order from the queen's own physician for bed curtains—”
Selid stopped. Her forehead ached, and she saw a telltale play of light begin washing the parchment she held. She dropped it as if it would burn her fingers.
No.
She had vowed, when she and Lance arrived in Tunise, never to prophesy again. It was too dangerous, not only to her, but to her beloved husband for being near her. She reasoned that if she didn't prophesy, the Master Priest would cease to hunt her; if she didn't prophesy, it would be simple to hide herself with only a thin etheric cloak, for she'd have nothing more to conceal than her own presence.
The cardinal still dwelt nearby, making its home in a tall pine, and Selid still fed the lovely bird. But she refused every vision.
She had hoped to gain a measure of peace that way, but peace eluded her. During the day, shadows seemed to pursue her. When she looked over her shoulder, they vanished; when she looked ahead they returned to haunt her. Nightmares broke her sleep; nightmares of the Master Priest bringing his keltice ring close to her face and Bolivar lifting a gleaming dagger.
“What is it?” Ginette's eyes widened. “Is something the matter?”
Selid snapped back to awareness of her surroundings. She was in the Little Best, scribing for the poor. She rubbed her forehead, deliberately darkening her visionary eye. She picked up her mug. “No, your son is quite well.” She took a long drink of tea before reading on. “… We have an order from the queen's own physician for bed curtains and an order for Lord Laversham's front windows. My uncle sends his kind regards. Be of good cheer. Your devoted son, Gel.” Selid looked up. “Would you like to send a reply?”
A few days later, Renchald waited in his sanctum for Kiran and Clea to arrive for their first prophecy pairing. Spring was well under way, and the two young people had been studying separately long enough. Both had demonstrated mastery of the techniques he had been teaching them. It was time to bring them together.
Clea arrived first. She bowed deeply as protocol dictated, holding the bow longer than normal.
Kiran was several minutes late. His bow as he entered was perfunctory at best. He dropped into the chair beside Clea. The Master Priest looked from one to the other. Clea, in her silk robe, with gold clasps fastening her yellow hair; Kiran, wearing what must be the shabbiest robe he could find, with his hair un-combed.
Renchald poured tea into prophecy cups on the table beside him. He handed each student a teacup. “ You will begin with a prophecy of minor significance. The leaves are from Lord Lindenhal, who resides in the Northland. Newly married, he asks for a prophecy regarding children.”
Clea sipped daintily. Kiran tossed his tea down, the delicate cup appearing overly fragile in his large fist.
“I will assist you through the pairing,” Renchald told them. “Are you ready?”
Clea's eager “ Yes” contrasted with Kiran's sullen nod.
After guiding Kiran and Clea back from the prophecy, Renchald allowed them a few minutes to compose their thoughts. Clea gazed at Kiran. Her eyes, for once, held no disguise, as if her choosing bird looked out of them; as if she'd caught the scent of a kill and knew it would lead her to all the meals she wanted. Kiran leaned back in his chair, breathing as if he needed more air.
The Master Priest dipped his pen. He turned to Clea, his hand poised above a fresh parchment on the table beside him. “Tell me your vision.”
She dragged her gaze from Kiran. “Lord and Lady Lindenhal will have no children, Your Honor.”
Renchald's quill hovered. “Ever?”
“She is barren, sir. Nothing can be done for her.” Her voice was cool and sure.
Renchald raised his eyebrows to Kiran. The young man nodded tiredly.
“Did you see anything else?” the Master Priest asked Clea.
“Her white stallion will go lame,” she answered. “He has a black star on his left flank.”
Such details were invaluable in prophecy. The pairing seemed to have brought the added clarity that Renchald had hoped for.
Kiran roused himself. “The wording should be: Put Lady Lindenhal's favorite white stallion, the one with a black star on his left flank, out to pasture and allow no one to ride him.”
Clea gave her head a little toss.
Renchald wrote the prophecy. He would have preferred a more auspicious tiding for Lord Lindenhal, but he wouldn't tamper with the vision—the Oracle's reputation depended on prophecies that would be borne out.
He laid down his pen. “ You are dismissed,” he told Clea. “We meet again in one week at the same hour.”
When the door closed behind her, Kiran sat more upright. “Clea wanted to give Lord Lindenhal the means to break his young wife's neck if he liked,” he said. He kicked at the carpet. “I don't want to pair with her again.”
Keldes, give me patience. “ Your lessons are not yet complete.” Renchald spoke calmly. “ You will learn a great deal more through practice.”
Kiran looked furiously angry. But the Master Priest knew he would not break his word.
Kiran left Renchald's sanctum, his heart aching, mind churning. He took a side passageway, fearing that Clea would be waiting for him somewhere along the main corridor. The passageway led into a tangle of unknown halls. He was glad to come upon a senior acolyte, who directed him to the nearest outer door.
Once outside, he gulped air desperately. He heard the dinner gong but ignored it, heading for the pond and woods, whistling softly for Jack. The evening breeze lifted his hair, stroked his cheek, caressed his neck. Jack bounded to his side. Kiran was moving so fast that if Jack hadn't been with him, he wouldn't have seen Bryn sitting on the flat rock by the pond, staring at the water. The dog greeted her enthusiastically.
Kiran noticed, as he always did now, that the breeze he'd been so grateful for didn't touch her. His frustration rose.
“Kiran?” Bryn said. “Are you all right?”
He sat beside her. Her brown braids lay limp against her worn robe, and her face looked tired. Kiran took a long breath. It was time he made some attempt to help her.
“Bryn,” he said gently, “do you trust me?”
She bent to pet Jack, one of her braids falling over her shoulder, partly hiding her face. “The only one I trust more than you is Jack.” The dog grinned wickedly at Kiran, tail thumping.
How restful it was to be next to her instead of Clea. Bryn didn't run her eyes over him as if he were a rich delicacy, didn't speak with Clea's glittery tones.
He cleared his throat. “Do you trust me enough to let me link with your mind?”
She blinked at him, golden-brown eyes wary. “The way you do with Jack?”
“Something like that.”
A flush crept up her face. “Would you know my mind the way you know Jack's?”
“I'd be looking for one thing only.”
“What?”
“Clea's curse.”
Bryn hugged her stomach. “How would you know where to find it?”
“I think it would be different from the rest of your inner landscape,” he said, and then realized he had spoken one of Renchald's secret phrases aloud: “inner landscape.”
According to the Master Priest, all people had landscapes within them that reflected their inner nature. Such private landscapes were part of the abanya, the vast etheric lands that existed, unseen by most, alongside the physical realm. People visited the abanya during sleep, but lived out their lives without consciously glimpsing its reality.
Part of Kiran's training for paired prophecy involved learni
ng not only to perceive the abanya but to walk within it consciously. To do so, he had developed a strong and focused dream body. Renchald taught that just as everyone had an inner landscape, everyone had a dream body, but most were not aware of its movements (beyond remembering fragments of nightly dreams) and had no control over where it traveled. Gifted prophets used the dream body to journey to other places and times, but very few were trained to move freely through the abanya at will.
Kiran had learned how. He knew he could enter Bryn's inner landscape, but it would be unethical to do so without her permission.
“The curse would be different from the rest of your mind, I mean,” he said hurriedly. “It might try to appear as if it belonged there, but it would seem out of place somehow, like a desert plant growing beside this pond.”
She looked down. “It's just that there are things in my mind I don't want you to see.”
Kiran thought he understood. “Would it help if I gave you one of my own secrets to keep?”
She jumped up so quickly that Jack got in her way, and she tripped over him, nearly falling. “I don't want a secret from you to be like a bargain,” she said. Her feathery eyebrows lowered. “Thank you. But no, I don't want you to link with my mind.” She began walking fast toward the Temple.
Kiran didn't go after her. “Hmmm,” he murmured to Jack when she was out of sight. The dog looked at him reproachfully. “Oh, you would have known what to say,” Kiran said, answering the look. “Humans are complicated, Jack.” The dog whined.
“Renchald would know what to do about the curse,” Kiran said softly. “But I won't ask him. I think he knows what happened to Bryn. He's done nothing to help her. He's elevated Clea instead.” Kiran looked at the sun's fading rays sinking their light into the pond. “And now, our Master Priest has Clea's curses at his command.”
FALL
Fifteen
On the fall equinox that year, the acolytes of the Temple were granted a day of freedom. If they wished, they could go to the Harvest Festival held in Amarkand City. There would be no festival in the Temple.
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