Lynn Flewelling - The Oracle's Queen

“It’s a great honor, Majesty, to conduct a new queen to Afra. I pray you receive a clear answer there, and comfort.”

“So do I,” she replied.

Arkoniel had brought Wythnir with him this time, and the boy rode proudly on a pony of his own, dressed in a fine new tunic and boots. It made him look older. The wizards spent much time riding together and though the boy said little, as always, Tamír could see that he was taking in every word his master said. He bore the long hours of riding without complaint, apparently content to be near Arkoniel rather than left behind again.

They slept at Ero on the second night, and the following day Illardi’s steward proudly showed her the new town springing up along the northern edge of the harbor. Many people were still in tents and makeshift shelters, but men were at work everywhere, hauling stone and hammering away at new house frames, and the air was sweet with the scents of lime and raw lumber. She paused frequently to watch the craftsmen.

Arkoniel smiled as she lingered to watch a woodcarver at work on a fancy lintel. “Do you ever wish you’d been born into a craftsman’s family instead?”

“Sometimes. I lost all my carving tools and haven’t had time to find any new ones.”

Arkoniel reached into his purse and handed her a small lump of fresh beeswax. “Will this do, for now? You never used to be without it.”

Tamír grinned; Arkoniel had been among the first to recognize and support her gift.

But not the first.

The sweet aroma brought back a few precious moments of peace with her mother—a rare smile as her mother had warmed a bit of wax between her hands. It smells of flowers and sunshine, doesn’t it? The bees store up all of summer for us in their waxen houses .

The sting of tears behind her eyelids surprised her. Tamír had so few good memories of her. She looked down at the serene carved countenance on her ring, wondering what Ariani would think, to see her in her true form? Would she love her at last, as much as she’d loved Brother? Would she have loved them both and not gone mad if Brother had lived?

Tamír shook off the bittersweet thought and strode on, hoping Arkoniel and the others hadn’t noticed her weakness.

They soon left the sea road behind, striking south and west toward the mountains for the next few days. This was the same road she’d taken the first time she’d come to Ero. She and Ki shared a silent look of longing as they passed the crossroads that would have taken them to the Alestun keep. Who knew when they would have the time to go there again? Her old nurse, Nari, wrote often, and Tamír always answered, but she couldn’t promise a visit.

Beyond the Alestun road, Lain led them along back roads that avoided the larger towns, moving ever inland. The first few nights they slept in small roadside inns, where people greeted her with respect and wide-eyed amazement, especially when their new queen was content to dine with them in the common room. She and the Companions joined in songs around the hearth at night, and Iya and Arkoniel entertained with simple, colorful spells and cast mendings for those who dared ask.

In return, the villagers spoke to Tamír of crops and bandits. Rogues of all sorts had grown bolder since Ero fell. Tamír sent a rider back with word for Illardi to have some of their idle warriors sent out to deal with brigands.

The great range that formed the spine of the Skalan peninsula loomed closer each day, the jagged peaks still snow-capped.

On the afternoon of the seventh day Lain guided them onto a well-traveled road that led into the mountains. Evergreen forest gradually gave way to thinner groves of quakeleaf and oak.

The way grew steep and began to twist, forcing them to rein their horses back to a walk. The air grew steadily cooler around them and carried the scents of plants Tamír did not recognize. Stunted, wind-twisted trees clung to the rocky slopes, and hardy mosses and small plants lined the road. It was still summer in Atyion but the air here already carried the first hint of autumn, and the quakeleafs were showing golden edges to their round leaves. Far above them the snow-capped peaks shone so brightly against the clear blue sky it hurt to look at them for long.

“It reminds me of my home. Many of these plants are the same,” Saruel remarked, riding beside Tamír.

“You’re from the mountains?”

“Yes. As a child I saw level ground only when we traveled to Sarikali for the clan gatherings.” She inhaled deeply, and the black tracery around her eyes pulled and bunched as she smiled. “I’ve missed these smells, and the coolness. I enjoyed my time in your capital, but it was very different than what I’m used to.”

Tharin chuckled. “Stinking Ero. It came by the name honestly, for certain.”

“I understand. I grew up in the mountains, too,” Tamír said.

“This feels like one of our hunting trips, doesn’t it, Tharin?” Just then something caught Ki’s eye and he leaned far over in the saddle to pluck a blossom from a clump of bell-shaped pink flowers growing from the cliff face. He kept a precarious grip on his horse’s sides with his knees, and came back up with a grin to present the flower to Tamír. “Look. Heart’s Ease, for better memories.”

Tamír sniffed at it, savoring the familiar heady scent, and tucked it behind her ear. Ki had never done such a thing before. The thought sent a giddy flutter through her chest and she nudged her horse into a trot so the others wouldn’t catch her blushing.

They camped beside a stream in a high, windswept valley that night. The stars showed large in the velvet sky, just as they had at Alestun, so bright they turned the snow on the peaks to silver.

Saruel and Lain gathered handfuls of small blue berries and brewed a sweet, resinous tea from them.

“Most of you haven’t traveled such high passes. The air grows thinner as we climb,” the priest explained. “Some feel ill with it, but this tea will help.”

Tamír had felt no ill effects so far, but Nikides, Una, and the new squires admitted to feeling a little dizzy toward the end of the day.

The owls here were numerous and larger than the ones in the lowlands, with tufts like a cat’s ears on their round heads and bands of brilliant white on the ends of their tail feathers. Ki found a few fallen feathers in the gorse by their campsite, and gave them to Tamír. She cast a few into the campfire with a murmured prayer for luck.

They slept on the ground, wrapped in their cloaks and blankets, and woke to find the valley in a thick, chilly mist that coated their hair and their horses’ coats with jeweled droplets. Sounds carried oddly. Tamír could hardly hear the conversation of those standing across the campsite, but the knocking of a woodpecker sounded as close as over her shoulder.

After a cold breakfast and more of Saruel’s tea, they continued on, walking their mounts until the mist cleared.

The peaks closed in around them and the way narrowed. To their right sheer rock face bore down on them, even overhanging the narrow trail in places so they often had to duck and lean precariously as they rode in single file behind the wizards and priest. On their left a sheer precipice fell away into the lingering mist below. Tamír cast a stone over the edge, but never heard it strike.

The afternoon was waning when Tamír noticed the first crescent shapes and bits of writing scratched into the bare rock face, left by other wayfarers and pilgrims.

“We’re getting close,” Iya told her as they rested their horses and let them graze on the sparse grass that lined the trail. “A few more hours will bring us to the painted gate you saw in your vision. Afra lies just beyond.”

Arkoniel scrutinized the inscriptions as they rode on. Presently he reined and pointed to one in particular. “Look, Iya, here’s the prayer I left the first time you brought me up here.”