Read Online The Light of the Oracle by Victoria Hanley - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Victoria Hanley
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uneasily, she was vaguely aware of lying on the gold velvet couch. She struggled to waken fully, wanting to sit up, to get off the couch, leave the bright chamber. But she might as well have tried fighting all the gods at once; she could not even open her eyes.
The wind picked her up and threw her at the heavy wall again; the wall appeared as solid as it had the first time. Again it turned to sand, and she was borne through it to another place, another time, a different dream.
A room with walls decorated in wooden mosaic surrounded her; the colors and shapes had been cut and polished like fine stones and then laid to formpatterns like ripples in a pond. Candles were grouped on a shelf beside a slanted writing desk, their light flickering warmly.
At the desk sat a woman, writing. Her head was bent in concentration, but as Bryn watched, she looked up, hazel eyes aware and staring.
There was no mistaking that face. Clean now, and the lips smooth rather than cracked, the skin healthy instead of burned, hair neatly combed, expression calm, but recognizable nevertheless: it was the one who had screamed at the Master Priest from the side of the road in the desert.
“ You lived?” Bryn whispered.
This is a dream
, she thought.
She cannot hear me
.
But the woman nodded. “Don't tell him,” she said, looking directly at Bryn. “She'll never read my words.”
Tell whom? And what? Bryn took a step closer to ask.
Dawn went to wake Bryn. The two of them had been scrubbing latrines in the early mornings for a week, and still Bryn hadn't learned to wake herself before the gong. Drawing aside her curtain, Dawn was surprised to see that Bryn was up already. Where had she gone?
Rushing to the washroom that adjoined the handmaids' hall, Dawn saw an empty row of porcelain basins. She hurried to check the latrines, but they too were deserted. She tore back to the handmaids' hall. Still no Bryn.
Dawn gathered a water bucket and scrub brush.
“Ellerth give me patience; I'll have to scrub all the latrines myself,” she muttered, shaking flakes of strong soap into the bucket.
Dawn finished the last latrine just as the wake-up gong sounded. She raced to stash her cleaning supplies and wash her hands and face. She threw on her student robe, not bothering to smooth its folds. Standing watch at the door to the main hallway, she quivered with anxiety as face after face passed, none of them Bryn.
“Did you have a nightmare, Dawn?” Eloise said. “Or are
you
the nightmare?”
Dawn barely heard her. She prayed to Vernelda, Goddess of Justice and Love:
Please, Vernelda, if I've offended you by asking so many times to stop growing taller, I'm sorry. If Bryn isn't here I'll have to report her missing, and what will the Sendrata of Handmaids do then? I'll be scrubbing latrines until the equinox
.
But once again Vernelda did not answer her prayers. Bryn did not appear.
Renchald enjoyed his silent hour of meditation each morning. He knew many of the priests and priestesses secretly looked upon it as a chore, but not he.
Today, however, something was wrong. He had performed the rituals flawlessly—lit seven tall white candles, one for each of the gods, and bowed to Keldes, Lord of Death, who looked after his choosing bird, the gyrfalcon. And yet, when he sat to meditate, instead of calm, a humming disquietude filled his mind.
Renchald breathed slowly, reaching out with his awareness, asking Keldes for a vision to help him discover what was wrong in the Temple.
He saw the keltice, the sacred knot, binding a silver thistle flower. The thistle grew out of a stone quarry, and the rocks of the quarry were carved with signs from the door to the deep chamber of the Oracle.
Even as the vision arose, Renchald knew its meaning: the Oracle's alabaster chamber was in use, though no one was scheduled to be in it, and the one who slept there was not a priest or priestess.
Stonecutter's daughter.
Renchald's eyes flew open.
Keldes give me
The wind picked her up and threw her at the heavy wall again; the wall appeared as solid as it had the first time. Again it turned to sand, and she was borne through it to another place, another time, a different dream.
A room with walls decorated in wooden mosaic surrounded her; the colors and shapes had been cut and polished like fine stones and then laid to formpatterns like ripples in a pond. Candles were grouped on a shelf beside a slanted writing desk, their light flickering warmly.
At the desk sat a woman, writing. Her head was bent in concentration, but as Bryn watched, she looked up, hazel eyes aware and staring.
There was no mistaking that face. Clean now, and the lips smooth rather than cracked, the skin healthy instead of burned, hair neatly combed, expression calm, but recognizable nevertheless: it was the one who had screamed at the Master Priest from the side of the road in the desert.
“ You lived?” Bryn whispered.
This is a dream
, she thought.
She cannot hear me
.
But the woman nodded. “Don't tell him,” she said, looking directly at Bryn. “She'll never read my words.”
Tell whom? And what? Bryn took a step closer to ask.
Dawn went to wake Bryn. The two of them had been scrubbing latrines in the early mornings for a week, and still Bryn hadn't learned to wake herself before the gong. Drawing aside her curtain, Dawn was surprised to see that Bryn was up already. Where had she gone?
Rushing to the washroom that adjoined the handmaids' hall, Dawn saw an empty row of porcelain basins. She hurried to check the latrines, but they too were deserted. She tore back to the handmaids' hall. Still no Bryn.
Dawn gathered a water bucket and scrub brush.
“Ellerth give me patience; I'll have to scrub all the latrines myself,” she muttered, shaking flakes of strong soap into the bucket.
Dawn finished the last latrine just as the wake-up gong sounded. She raced to stash her cleaning supplies and wash her hands and face. She threw on her student robe, not bothering to smooth its folds. Standing watch at the door to the main hallway, she quivered with anxiety as face after face passed, none of them Bryn.
“Did you have a nightmare, Dawn?” Eloise said. “Or are
you
the nightmare?”
Dawn barely heard her. She prayed to Vernelda, Goddess of Justice and Love:
Please, Vernelda, if I've offended you by asking so many times to stop growing taller, I'm sorry. If Bryn isn't here I'll have to report her missing, and what will the Sendrata of Handmaids do then? I'll be scrubbing latrines until the equinox
.
But once again Vernelda did not answer her prayers. Bryn did not appear.
Renchald enjoyed his silent hour of meditation each morning. He knew many of the priests and priestesses secretly looked upon it as a chore, but not he.
Today, however, something was wrong. He had performed the rituals flawlessly—lit seven tall white candles, one for each of the gods, and bowed to Keldes, Lord of Death, who looked after his choosing bird, the gyrfalcon. And yet, when he sat to meditate, instead of calm, a humming disquietude filled his mind.
Renchald breathed slowly, reaching out with his awareness, asking Keldes for a vision to help him discover what was wrong in the Temple.
He saw the keltice, the sacred knot, binding a silver thistle flower. The thistle grew out of a stone quarry, and the rocks of the quarry were carved with signs from the door to the deep chamber of the Oracle.
Even as the vision arose, Renchald knew its meaning: the Oracle's alabaster chamber was in use, though no one was scheduled to be in it, and the one who slept there was not a priest or priestess.
Stonecutter's daughter.
Renchald's eyes flew open.
Keldes give me
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