The Long Look, page 14
part #1 of The Laws of Power Series
"Does the value of the offering matter?" Seb whispered.
"Not to Yanasha, supposedly. I imagine the priest who lives on the offerings or the Temple at Kodna which takes the rest might be concerned; their vestments are rather threadbare these days, I hear. As it is, the goddess does not value the offering at all. The theory is that the supplicant does so, for the cost can only be weighed against the means. The goddess—through the Oracle—judges their sincerity accordingly."
"Do you believe all that?" Seb asked.
"Believe? No. I accept it, as I would a rule in chess, and make my moves within those constraints."
"How can you value omens and pronouncements from a goddess you have no faith in? Why did we walk so far to get here?"
Tymon shrugged. "I believe in very little, all in all, and as the years go by I find I believe in less and less all the time. It’s not such an obstacle; you’d be surprised how few wonders of the universe require our faith to manifest. Simple acceptance of those wonders, on the other hand, is a much more rare commodity. That’s the real coin I bring, Seb. The gold is for the priest."
Seb let it go, since he had no argument to offer. Their offerings made, they traveled past the portal at the rear of the stone shrine and out to the Oracle itself.
They stood near the end of a dead-end valley. It was a sheltered spot; here the grass was still green albeit beginning to turn in the growing cold. A swift mountain spring rushed down the rock face some fifty yards away to gather in a stone basin for a moment before flowing outward in two separate streams. The two streams formed a small grassy island between them before meeting again near the back of a small garden behind the shrine and flowing on past, making the stream they had seen upon first arrival. The Oracle lived on the island.
Living, Seb thought, might be a bit of an exaggeration.
It was a weak sort of witticism, unspoken and quickly shamed into oblivion. Seb considered himself a hard man; by necessity, certainly, and he had reason enough, but a hard man nonetheless. He wondered if it were possible to be so hard that what he saw now could not touch him.
The Oracle of Yanasha was a girl. Seb guessed her to be about nine or ten, but it was hard to be sure. She was thin past gauntness; her hair was a tangle of weeds and filth. She sat in a little ragged heap near the center of the little islet, rocking very slowly, whimpering to herself in her madness.
"Sweet Yanasha..." That was Hoba, but he didn’t say anything else. He just stared at the wretched bundle.
The attendant priest was a youngish man with a furrowed brow and cold blue eyes. "You knew what to expect, good pilgrim."
Hoba shook his head. "I know the locusts may come in summer and devour everything I own. Seeing it happen is something else again. Is there nothing..?"
The priest didn’t let him finish. "No. There is nothing we can do for her."
"She’s hungry," Seb said, because he could clearly see that it was so.
"And thirsty, I dare say," the priest admitted, "though she has been known to sip from the stream now and then. She doesn’t often manage, and now she is almost too weak to try. If you have a question, I would ask it soon. I doubt she’ll live the night."
Seb studied the priest. Why does he look so angry? He’s not the one being treated like an animal. Or worse than one, by the look of things. "I’d feed a stray dog if I had a scrap to spare," Seb said mildly. "Surely the Priests of Yanasha can do that much for one who enriches their sect so greatly?"
The priest just looked at him for a moment. "You don’t understand," he said.
"Aye, and he’s not alone." That was Hoba.
"It’s really very simple," said Tymon.
They all looked at him; for a moment Seb had forgotten that he was even there. He and the mute boy Tuls had just been standing by the stream’s edge, looking the Oracle, both saying nothing. Now Tymon spoke. The boy just kept staring.
"’When the spirit of Yanasha moves across the land, it reaches the one who would be her vessel. Be it man in arms or woman in childbed, it matters not. That one chosen is taken by the spirit, and invested with a portion of that spirit. That one will journey to the shrine of Yanasha in Wylandia. That one shall speak with Yanasha’s Voice until death or the Goddess release them.’ Or so it is written," Tymon said. He turned to the young man. "Have I gotten the gist of it, Guardian?"
"Gist? More like word for word, from The Book of Time," the priest said. "Of which only three copies are known to exist. Are you a theologian?"
"I try to be whatever is needed as the need arises," Tymon said. "Today I am simply a pilgrim."
Seb, sensing danger, tried to steer the conversation away from Tymon’s profession. "So a person is possessed in some fashion and compelled to come here and become the Oracle," Seb said. He pointed accusingly at the island. "That doesn’t explain this."
"Oh, but it does," the priest said, warming to the subject. "Think about it."
"I will not," Seb said.
"That’s your good fortune, Sir," the priest replied. "I’ve been able to do little else for the past few weeks."
Something in the man’s voice got Seb’s attention. "You didn’t choose this task, did you?"
The priest sighed. "Only a monster would choose this mission. There are surprisingly few monsters in the Priesthood of Yanasha, despite what you may think."
"Are you being punished?" Hoba asked.
"In a manner of speaking," the priest replied. "Or tested, rather. The Guardianship of the Oracle of Yanasha is a heavy burden. We have had individuals leave the Temple rather than bear it."
Seb put his hands on his hips. "How heavy? You neither feed her nor clothe her nor house her. All you do is watch!"
If Seb was hoping to move the priest to anger he was disappointed. The man merely nodded, looking glum. "Aye, just that. We watch. Every day until the end. That is what we do. That is all we are allowed to do."
Hoba looked away from the wretched girl and glared at the priest. Tuls did not move, nor look away. He watched the girl with an awful, fixed expression that Seb had noted but didn’t want to try and read. Hoba, for his part, spoke his mind plainly. "As I said, Priest: one thing to know, another to see. I know the stories; I grew up in a household dedicated to Yanasha! Yet as I see this...everything I once knew to be true could be a lie. It would take the weight of a feather to turn the scale now."
Seb sighed. "You may all know the reasons, but I am neither a scholar nor one of the faithful. I would be grateful to have it explained."
"They have to be certain," Tymon said, "that the one who comes to the shrine is actually the Blessed of Yanasha."
Blessed? Seb could barely form the thought without feeling ill.
The priest nodded. "That’s the heart of the matter: for food and lodging and a gentle life there are many who would feign madness quite convincingly. They would come into the shrine upon the death of the former Oracle and take their place on the Islet of Time. And they would lie, false prophesies, false oracles, and no way for us to tell true coin from false. It could happen—nay, it did happen on several occasions according to our chronicles, and there was a great deal of damage done. Our forebearers had to find a way to be sure that the Oracle was genuine."
"And they chose this," Seb said.
Another shrug. "The Oracles eat whatever they can scrounge. They wear whatever they bring with them. They die quickly. Sometimes the shrine is vacant for months. Sometimes years. But never in the last three centuries has a false Oracle sat on the Islet of Time. The forebearers were wise," the priest said, then repeated, softly, "Wise indeed."
"Speak the word three times, Priest," Seb said, "Try and make it true."
The priest didn’t seem to hear. "Time is growing short," the priest said. "Do you wish an oracle or not?"
Hoba glanced at Tuls, then at the Oracle again, then at nothing in particular. "Aye," he said.
The priest nodded. He stepped across a small wooden bridge to the island and kneeled before the oracle. She did not react at first. Finally she raised her head a little and looked at him without any sign of comprehension as he whispered to her. He could have been a courtier before a queen for all the deference in his posture and attitude, and not one plain-robed priest before a mad, dying girl. After a moment the girl’s head slumped forward again and she did not move. The priest waited for several long moments then reached out and touched her neck and wrist. He held his hands there for several long moments, then finally rose again and crossed the bridge.
"I’m sorry, but there can be no oracle today."
"Is she dead?" Tymon asked, but the priest shook his head.
"No, but almost. I do not think there will be any more oracles for some time. I’m sorry," he repeated.
"Say it again," Seb said, trying to give his anger somewhere to go.
The priest met his gaze squarely. "I’m sorry."
Seb was still angry, though now he felt a little ashamed as well, and he didn’t know why. The priest turned away and started toward the shrine, his shoulders hunched, his face turned toward the ground. He stopped only a few paces away, and turned to look at the oracle. Everyone else was doing the same, or rather looking at Tuls, standing where he had stood from the first, gazing across at the oracle.
Tuls was singing.
Seb did not know the song; he thought it was a hymn of some kind, but he had only heard a very few in his life and could not say for sure. There seemed to be little of faith, glory, or even joy in what words Seb could make out; that didn’t seem to matter. Nor was Tuls’ voice anything special; indeed the first stirrings of adolescence seem to be playing merry hob with his pitch. That didn’t seem to matter either. Tuls looked at the oracle with his eyes full of tears, and he sang. No one else said a word. Even Hoba seemed stunned with joy as if he had taken Tuls’ muteness into himself.
The Oracle looked up. She didn’t revive, exactly. There seemed precious little left of her that could be revived. Yet, like the others, she listened to Tuls’ simple song.
Did she...smile?
Seb wasn’t certain, and whether it was a smile or a grimace of lunacy or pain, it faded as the song ended. In a moment Hoba was at his son’s side.
"Father, I’m so sorry..."
"You are answered."
The voice was strong and clear; that of a young girl and yet born and carried by something far older, like a lost rose drifting in on the tide. With that the girl’s eyes closed and she slumped over on her left side. The priest took a step toward the bridge, but there was no need. They could all see her stir fitfully, see the slow rise and fall of her chest.
"She’s asleep, or fainted. Probably not much difference now," the priest said.
Tymon went to the farmer. "I’m very happy for your son," he said.
Hoba thanked Tymon and Seb and the priest and the Oracle and Yanasha, and everything else within thought or hearing, and then he led his son back through the shrine and out toward the path home. Tymon watched them go.
"That was fortunate, though unexpected," the priest said. Tymon nodded, but that was all. The priest went on. "I wish I could say the same would happen again, but I’m afraid there’s not much chance. I am surprised she had that much strength, but it’s gone now, as you can see."
Tymon looked at the sleeping girl. "Guardian, with your permission we’d like to camp just beyond the grounds on the off chance the Oracle revives in the morning. If not, we will be on our way."
"As you will. May Yanasha smile on you." The priest clearly thought it was futile, but no harm in trying. Tymon’s face was unreadable.
"Let’s make camp, Seb. I’m tired."
When night came it was very cold. Not freezing the breath in your body and the blood in your bones cold, but chilly enough. Seb got tired of lying awake. The stars were bright in a cloudless sky but, try as he might, Seb could see nothing in them but cold, distant points of light. The campfire embers were fading; Tymon’s huddled form was barely visible some distance away, wrapped in his bedroll, silent and still.
At least one of us can sleep.
Seb gave up. He moved quietly so as not to wake his sleeping companion. Seb laced on his boots and wrapped himself in his cloak. He hesitated only a moment, then took one of the blankets from his bedding and a few biscuits and dried meat from his pouch and slipped away toward the shrine. The door was not locked, as he had expected. He eased it open; there was an alcove of sorts near the back where the priest slept; a curtain was drawn across it, but Seb waited until he heard the man’s snores, then moved like a moonshadow past the altar and out toward the Oracle. In a moment he was standing on the bridge to the Islet of Time.
"I wondered if you’d be along."
Seb, casting backward glances at the shrine, had not been paying as much attention to the oracle as perhaps he should have. Thus he did not see the figure kneeling before the Oracle of Yanasha until it was too late.
"T-Tymon? What are you doing here?" Seb had enough presence of mind to keep his voice to a whisper, but only just.
"I could ask you the same thing, if I didn’t already know," Tymon said. He neither moved nor turned around. "Did you think you could make that much difference with one little blanket and a few scraps of food?"
Seb looked grim. "A small difference is better than none. It might at least help a little."
"Perhaps. But help whom, I wonder?"
"Don’t go cryptic on me. I suppose that business about waiting until the morning was just a ruse?"
"Until I could sneak in here under the Guardian’s nose and get my oracle before the wretched girl dies? Of course. What else?"
"Tymon, have I told you lately what a bastard you can be?"
Tymon still didn’t turn around. "No," he said, "You’ve been rather remiss."
Seb could barely get the words out. "How can you joke about that? Even you?"
"’Even me’ isn’t joking. I am a bastard, because serving the Will of the Powers requires it more often than not, and it was my choice to do that. My own, albeit reluctant, choice. I need to be reminded in case I forget. Unlikely, but why take the chance?"
Tymon stood up. Behind him was the huddled form of the oracle, covered in Tymon’s blanket.
Seb shook his head. "I suppose next you’ll tell me that you brought the blanket just to help keep her alive long enough for the oracle to be given?"
Tymon looked puzzled. "You mean you think there might be some other explanation?"
"It’s possible," Seb said, then nodded. "Yes. You came to help her too, didn’t you?"
"No." As if to emphasize that point, Tymon reached down and pulled the blanket away.
It took Seb a few moments to understand what he was seeing. "First you bring a blanket, now you take it. What do you think you’re doing?!"
"I think I’m looking for an answer." Tymon walked past him, dragging the blanket behind him like an afterthought. "I’m taking the blanket because if the Guardian finds it in the morning he’ll be doing purification rituals for a bloody month, and—strangely enough—I don’t think he deserves that. Besides," he said, and sighed, "she doesn’t need it anymore."
It only took Seb a few moments to confirm what Tymon had told him. The Oracle of Yanasha was dead.
§
In the morning Seb and Tymon helped the priest place the girl’s wasted body in a stone mausoleum. Seb had noted the smooth stone structure the day before but hadn’t made the connection; he’d thought it some kind of storeroom. Which, as he looked about at the pitiful bones of Oracles past, he realized wasn’t too far wrong. There was no grand ritual; only a simple prayer which the priest made as they swung the bronze door shut. Soon after the priest himself started to pack his few belongings and the remaining shrine offerings onto the back of a stout donkey.
"Your mission then is done, I take it?" Tymon asked.
"’One is a test. Two is torture,’ as my old teacher used to say. I’ll return to the Temple at Kodna and my abbot. There are devotees of Yanasha among the herders here; when a new Oracle appears at the shrine they will send word."
"And a new Guardian will be appointed."
"That is the custom." The priest hesitated, then added, "For now."
Tymon smiled. "You stated the argument for the rules very well yesterday."
The priest shrugged. "I’d heard them often enough."
"Yet you still think those rules regarding the Oracle are wrong."
The priest smiled a grim smile. "Don’t you?"
Tymon ignored the question. "And as you advance in the hierarchy of the Temple you will try to change them. I doubt you will succeed, and you will make enemies. You’d be better off to leave the Temple."
"Yes," the priest said. "I would. Like that farmer, I came within a feather’s touch of losing my faith and leaving the temple. In fact, until yesterday I had resolved to do just that."
"What changed your mind?" Tymon asked.
The priest looked almost embarrassed. "The boy. His song. When he had nothing else to offer, he found that much. I looked at my own faith compared to his and was ashamed. I don’t know Yanasha’s will where the Oracle is concerned; no one does. I don’t understand the harshness of her Blessing. Yet I do believe there is something worth preserving here. I still want to leave; now I can’t."
"Who’s preventing you?" Seb asked.
"I am. Because then nothing would ever change. More souls lost to the Temple for the wrong reasons. The Temple continues to decline under the burden of guilt; Yanasha will still send the Oracle to this little canyon to die. Leaving would be a brief balm to my conscience, and that’s all. When I return to Kodna one of the first things I’ll do is have an argument with my abbot. It will be a long argument. Years, perhaps, but as I study and dispute perhaps I’ll learn what I need to convince him, and where he goes others will follow. Perhaps. One has to start somewhere."
"That," Tymon said, "one does. Good fortune, Guardian."
