The Light of the Oracle Read Free Page B

face?”
    “Hush,” Nirene said. “Her priest is dead.”
    Clea gave a disdainful sniff. “What did he die of? Shame?”
    Bryn glared. “He was more than you'll ever be,” she said.
    “Quite a eulogy,” Clea answered. “More than me? Undoubtedly he was—more ignorant.”
    Bryn didn't answer, turning her back. Clea smiled knowingly.
    During the ride to Tunise, the Master Priest halted the procession each time they came to a crossroads; there he would pour libations of wine and lead prayers to Winjessen, the god who presided over travel as well as learning.
    After several crossroads, Bryn, drooping in her saddle, surprised Nirene by asking, “Why must Winjessen be reminded again and again to watch over our journey? Isn't he fleet of thought and quick of memory?”
    “Hush,” Nirene said, glad they were too far from the Master Priest to be heard. “Don't speak of things about which you know nothing.” How abominably backward the girl was. Well, judging by the state of his rectory, her village priest had likely forgotten everything he'd learned in the Temple as a youth.
    Clea was snickering. “She doesn't know
anything
. Why don't you throw her back in that sinkhole she crawled from?”
    Bryn was quiet, patting her horse.
    When they reached the city of Tunise, Bryn's head waved like a weed in the wind, her eyes wide, taking inthe streets. Vendors, colorfully dressed beneath flimsy awnings of orange, yellow, and blue cloth, called out to passersby; mobs of children, circling the vendors, looked for treats they might steal; merchants haggled with their customers.
    At last, the Temple procession arrived at the inn where they would stay. After dinner, Nirene and her two charges were given a small, dank chamber with three narrow cots.
    Clea stood in the middle of the room, sputtering her rage. “This place is no better than a cottager's shed. Order a bath for me, Nirene, and a better room.”
    Nirene took a firm grip on her patience. “Tunise is not a wealthy city. The accommodations are scant, as you can well see. I cannot better them. When you arrive in the Temple, your quarters will be as small. You may as well get used to it.” She pointed to a basin in the corner. “We'll wash there.”
    Clea whirled upon Bryn. “I'm descended from King Zor. I'll not sleep anywhere near this rat, nor share a basin with the likes of her. She looks as if she's never bathed in her life.”
    “I bathe in the quarry,” Bryn flared in answer, “where the water is deep.”
    Clea lifted her nose. “And in the winter? What do you do then—wait for spring thaw?” She clenched her fists. “Get her out, Nirene.”
    “ You can't dismiss a sister handmaid, Clea. If you don't wish to sleep here, you may stand in the corridor.”
    Clea threw herself onto the cot closest to the wall, turning her face away.
    As Bryn splashed water on her skin, she imagined she was washing away her sadness over Dai's death along with the dust of the road. She wished she'd known the day before that he was close to the end of his life. She would have told him what it had meant to her to know him, to be taught by him.
    I would have said goodbye.
    What had they talked about instead? She remembered him saying that he'd pondered the riddles of life, and that his own fate was known all too well.
“The only possible mystery to be found in Uste is that of a glorious girl named Bryn. Why was she born in such a sinkhole?
” He'd chuckled and raised his glass to her.
    Had he really known that “they” would come for her? And what had he meant to remind her of when he said “Remember”?
    Bryn slid onto her cot, lying quite still as Nirene snuffed the candles.
    Listening to Nirene's quiet breathing, Bryn missed the sounds of her brothers tossing and turning, of her father's gentle snores. Her thoughts swirled like the thistledown she had followed earlier. It hardly seemed possible that in the morning she had been running through the fields like a heedless child.