The Light of the Oracle - Softcover

Victoria Hanley is the author of The Seer and the Sword and The Healer's Keep. She lives in Colorado with her husband and two children. The author lives in Colorado.

One
Bryn knew that others would consider it childish for a girl of fifteen to chase through fields after a plume of thistledown. If her mother had been watching, she would have thrown up her hands and berated the gods for sending her a good-for-nothing daughter. Her brothers would sneer; even her father would look troubled. But Bryn wasn't thinking of her disapproving relations; to her, the web of sunlight caught in the threads of thistledown seemed brighter than anything else in the world.

The silky down brushed against Bryn's forehead before whirling away again, borne on the breeze. She tried to catch it, but it kept moving out of reach, spinning and leading her on. How had it come to be there, dancing in the winds of spring? Normally, thistles didn't shed their seeds until full summer.

A loud neigh brought Bryn up short. A spray of pebbles stung her bare ankles, and shouts filled her ears. Falling backward, she landed hard in the dust of the village road. The thistledown had led her straight across the path of a horse! She picked herself up, backing away from the great hooves that had nearly crushed her head. Across the road in the field beyond, her thistledown was hurrying away with the wind.

"Who are you?" asked the man whose horse had nearly trampled her. His red robes, embroidered with gold, moved stiffly in the breeze. Behind him rode a line of soldiers; gold and red insignia blazed upon the breastplates of their armor. Beyond the soldiers, Bryn glimpsed more travelers.

She gazed, speechless. This vision was more real than any of the others that had glimmered before her eyes over the years. She blinked and waited for it to disappear.

"Who are you?"A large ring on the rider's hand flashed in her eyes.

Bryn was accustomed to being tagged the odd one, the strange girl, the silly dreamer. Only Dai, the village priest, seemed to think well of her. She had often been mocked for talking to her visions, but this one seemed to demand an answer. "Bryn, sir."

"Bryn, is it?" His lean face showed no expression. "Why did you run in front of my horse?"

Bryn looked again at the ornate embroidery on his robes. He didn't disappear; his form was just as solid as the pebbles digging into the soles of her feet. She bent into the deep bow Dai had taught her for greeting an important priest.

When she straightened, he was still staring. "I asked why you ran in front of my horse."

"I don't know, sir." How could she tell him that the thistledown had led her?

"Tell me. No harm shall come to you."

Bryn pointed across the field, though the wind was empty now. "The thistledown," she said. "It wanted me to follow."

He didn't laugh at her. "Where do you live, Bryn?"

"By the quarry."

"Does your father cut stone?"

"Yes, sir. My brothers, too."

"Can you ride a horse?"

Bryn nodded, somewhat guiltily. She and Aaron, the blacksmith's son, had made free with every horse in the village--at night when their stalls were left unguarded. Aaron had even dared her to ride a spirited stallion that had once been stabled with his father's horses. Bryn had taken the dare, and she would never forget the sensation of flying across the moonlit fields.

"Bolivar," the priest said to a soldier just behind him. "Fetch the white mare."

Bolivar, a large man with a short mustache, led forward a snowy horse, saddled and bridled with a blue harness. The soldier's armor creaked as he lifted Bryn into the saddle, the muscles of his arms bigger than a blacksmith's.

Bryn wasn't used to the sidesaddle position. She felt awkward. When she rode with Aaron, both of them simply flung themselves bareback on whatever horses they could find.

"Which way to your home?" the priest asked her.

"That way, sir." She pointed. To get to the quarry by way of the road, they would have to pass through her village, which was called Uste after the first rock miner to settle there. How Bryn wished she could ride this splendid horse through all her favorite places by herself. At home, this important man would tell her mother how foolish she had been; how she had run heedlessly in front of him.

"Come then," the priest ordered, and urged his horse to a trot.

Bryn rode behind him. She wished Dai were there to explain who this grand priest might be--but Dai would be alone in the rectory at this time of day. He called it his time of prayer, though Bryn knew he contemplated bottles of wine instead of focusing on devotion to the gods.

The villagers were calling one another out of their shops, bowing to the red-robed priest who led the procession of riders. When he lifted his shining ring, they bowed lower. Bryn eyed the ring uneasily. It was wrought into the shape of a golden keltice, the knot sacred to the gods. Dai had told her that the Master Priest of the Oracle had such a ring. And no one but the Master Priest may wear it, he had said, his filmy eyes crinkling at the corners.

Could it be the Master Priest himself visiting the meager village of Uste? It hardly seemed possible. The Temple of the Oracle was far away, past the Lyden Desert to the south. Besides, important people rarely passed through Uste. The stone quarried here was unremarkable; those who used such stone for making lowly walls and cottages would send laborers to transport it, not renowned priests.

The procession passed the baker's shop at the end of the village. As it approached the quarry, the road ahead began to fill with men and boys, rock hammers in hand. And from their midst, a woman hurried forward; it was Bryn's mother, Nora. Someone must have carried news to the quarry.

Nora pushed her way to the front of the crowd of stonecutters. When she saw who rode near her daughter, her face turned chalky. She bowed deeply. Bryn's father, Simon, shouldered through to stand next to his wife. He too bowed low.

"You are this girl's parents?" The priest's voice cut through all the murmurs around him.

"Yes, sir." Nora's face hardened. "Whatever she's done, please forgive her. She doesn't know what she's about."

"She has done nothing to offend. I have come to visit her parents. If you would be so good as to receive me into your home, I will speak with you and your daughter. Alone." He gave the last word only a small emphasis, but the knot of men and boys began to unravel and move back toward the quarry. Astonishing. Bryn had never seen a man with such power.