The Light of the Oracle Read Free

vinegar….
    Now she stood beside Nirene at the end of the procession, wrinkling her pretty nose. “How long must we wait in this sinkhole?”
    “Patience,” Nirene answered sourly. She watched as the Master Priest led the scrawny stonecutter's daughter toward her. Bolivar, captain of the Temple guards, marched close behind them, his hand on the bridle of the white mare the girl had been riding.
    “Nirene, meet Bryn,” Renchald said when he drew near. “She will become a handmaid in the Temple. I put her into your care.”
    Nirene bowed: Sendrata of Handmaids to Master Priest. Renchald bowed quickly in return. “Bryn, meet Nirene, Sendrata of Handmaids to the Oracle.”
    The girl's eyebrows were strongly arched like birds in flight; she had odd teak-colored eyes, which she lowered properly when she bowed. Her bow itself was appallingly inept, however. Her palms hardly met before flopping open as her back hunched and straightened, but if Renchald was offended by her ignorance, heconcealed it. He spoke to her politely. “I believe we passed a rectory?” he asked.
    Bryn nodded, biting her lip.
    “We will stop there on our way out of the village so you can say farewell to this priest who taught you,” he said. Before she could reply, he turned away, walking to his horse.
    Bryn's glance fell across Nirene and then went to Clea.
    Lord Errington's daughter had hair the color of dandelion flowers; she wore a dainty bonnet trimmed with yellow ribbons. Lace adorned the collar and cuffs of her dress, silky flounces her skirt. Soft leather boots fit her feet so well they had obviously been made just for her. It would have been hard to find a greater contrast to the stonecutter's daughter, with her tangled brown hair hanging loose down her back, stained smock so skimpy it was almost indecent, and bare feet covered with scratches and calluses.
    Nirene touched Clea's shoulder. “Meet Clea,” she told Bryn. “Like you, she will study in the Temple.”
    Bryn smiled with surprising warmth. She bowed to Clea.
    Lord Errington's daughter flinched. “He can't mean it,” she said disgustedly to Nirene. “
She
is going to Amarkand?”
    A wary look passed over Bryn's face.
    “The Master Priest has chosen her,” Nirene answered.
    Clea's eyes glittered spitefully. “But she's so … dirty. Rather like a rat.”
    Under Clea's stare, Bryn's cheeks began to burn red beneath the smudges on her face.
    “In the Temple, you will be sisters to one another,” Nirene promised, not believing her own words. “Now, mount up. We are moving.”
    Clea mounted expertly, her foot light on the stirrup, springing to sit sidesaddle. Bryn grasped her mare's neck, pulling herself astride the horse like an untaught boy, the hem of her smock riding up to her knees in the process. Once mounted, she threw both legs awkwardly over one side of the saddle.
    Clea laughed unpleasantly. “I spoke out of turn,” she said. “What rat could ride with such grace as that?” She guided her horse to one side of Nirene while Bryn rode on the other, and they followed the Temple procession.
    Bryn turned to Nirene. “Are you a priestess?”
    Nirene gritted her teeth.
    Clea gave a loud sniff. “Can't you see she's not wearing the robes of a priestess? She may be Sendrata of Handmaids, but she's still a
handmaid
—and she'll never be a priestess.” She smirked. “The gods did not find her worthy.”
    Stung by Clea's words—however true they might be—Nirene seethed. She'd have liked to throw Clea from her horse and see her dragged in the dust. It was something the Sendrata of Handmaids could order. But Clea's father was too important a patron of the Temple to risk his disfavor. Nirene contained her anger with silence.
    Bryn too kept quiet as they passed through thevillage of Uste once more. The people stood in front of their wretched little shops, bowing. A grubby lad with a tuft of sooty hair waved wildly at Bryn, and when she waved back, a grin split his