Lynn Flewelling - The Oracle's Queen

“I remember,” Iya said with a smile. “I must have a few marks around here somewhere, too.”

“Why do you do this?” asked Saruel.

“Custom, I suppose. For luck, too,” Iya replied.

“Isn’t that what people always say about such things?” said Lynx, still a staunch Sakoran despite all he’d seen.

“You’d do well not to mock the devotions of the Illior, young lord,” Lain said, overhearing. “These prayers last far longer than any charm burned up in a fire. They shouldn’t be taken lightly, or made thoughtlessly.” He turned in the saddle. “You should write something, Queen Tamír. All your forebears have done so, somewhere along this route.”

The thought was a comforting one, and gave her a sense, once again, of being connected to the line of women who’d come before her.

Everyone dismounted and hunted for sharp stones to scratch their names and messages.

Saruel joined them, but instead passed her hand across the stone. A small silver crescent and words in fine script appeared. “It’s a good thing, to honor the Lightbearer on the way to his sacred place,” she murmured, watching approvingly as Lynx’s young squire made his mark.

“You’ve ’faie blood in you, Tyrien í Rothus,” Saruel said. “I see it in the color of your eyes.”

“So my grandmother told me, but it’s a long way back, so I can’t have much,” the boy replied, those grey eyes alight with pleasure that she’d noticed. “I’m no wizard, anyway.”

“The amount makes no difference, but the lineage, and even that’s no sure thing,” Iya told him, overhearing. “A good thing, too. If every Skalan with a drop of ’faie blood in their veins was wizard-born, there’d be little for warriors to do.”

“Were your parents mages?” Saruel asked Wythnir, who was making his mark a little way on.

“I don’t know,” the boy replied softly. “I was just little when they sold me off.”

That was more than Tamír had ever heard him say at one go, and the most he’d ever confided. Tamír smiled at the way Arkoniel’s hand rested on the boy’s shoulder, and the worshipful look it earned him. Tamír found herself wishing she’d given him more of a chance as a child. He’d been just as kind with her, then and now. He was her friend.

Ask Arkoniel! Brother’s challenge still sent an uneasy chill through her.

Tamír pushed the thought aside for later and stared at the bit of flat wall she’d chosen, at a loss as to what she should write. Finally she scratched in simply, “Queen Tamír II, daughter of Ariani, for Skala, by the will of Illior.” She added a small crescent moon under it, then passed the stone she’d used as a stylus to Ki.

He leaned in beside her and scratched his name and a crescent moon under hers, then drew a circle around both their names.

“Why’d you do that?” she asked.

It was Ki’s turn to blush as he said softly, “To ask the Lightbearer to keep us together. That was my prayer.”

With that he hurried away and busied himself checking his girth strap. Tamír sighed inwardly. First the flower, and now this, but he still kept his distance. Once she’d thought she’d known his heart to the core. Now she had no idea what was held there, and feared to hope.

The sun was sinking behind the mountains when Tamír rounded a bend and was struck with a dizzying sense of familiarity.

The vista before her was the exact scene from her vision in Ero. The narrow track twisted out of sight, then back into view in the distance. There stood the incongruous gate straddling the road, painted with bright colors that glowed in the fading light. She knew it was real, but it still seemed like something from a dream. As they rode closer, she made out stylized dragons painted in brilliant shades of red, blue, and gold twined around the narrow opening, as if they were alive and guarding this sacred way with fangs and fire.

“Illior’s Keyhole.”

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” said Arkoniel. “Do you recognize the style?”

“I saw work like that in the Old Palace. It’s centuries old. How long has this been here?”

“At least that long, and it’s only the most recent one,” said Iya. “Others have fallen to ruin and been replaced. Legend says a gate already stood here when the first Skalan priests followed a vision to the sacred place. No one knows who built the first gate, or why.”

“We are taught that a dragon built the first gate, from the stones of the mountain, to guard Illior’s sacred cavern,” Lain told them.

“My people tell the same tale of our sacred places,” said Saruel. “Of course, dragons still do things like that in Aurënen.”

“Dragon bones are sometimes found in the higher valleys. Now and then we even get little fingerlings at the shrine.” Lain turned back to address the others. “I should warn you, if any of you see what appears to be a little lizard with wings, pay it proper respect and don’t touch it. Even fingerling dragons have a nasty bite.”

“Dragons?” Wythnir’s eyes lit up with a child’s excitement.

“Tiny ones and very rarely seen,” Lain replied.

They had to dismount at the gate and lead their horses along a narrow, rocky trail. Afra lay up a narrow pass less than a mile or so beyond. Presently the cleft opened into a deep, barren place. It was already shrouded in shadow, but several red-robed priests and a handful of young boys and girls carrying torches were waiting for them. Behind them, the trail twisted away into the shadows.

Ki sniffed the air, which carried the smell of cooking. “I hope they saved us some dinner. My belly thinks my throat’s been slit.”

“Welcome Queen Tamír the Second!” the lead priest cried, bowing low with his torch. “I am Ralinus, high priest of Afra in Imonus’ absence. In the name of the Oracle, I welcome you. She has watched long for your coming. Praise to you, the Lightbearer’s chosen one!”

“Did Imonus send you word?” asked Tamír.

“He did not have to, Majesty. We knew.” He bowed to Iya next. “The Oracle bids me welcome you, too, Mistress Iya. You have been faithful and accomplished the difficult task set for you, all those years ago.”

The priest caught sight of Saruel and held out his tattooed palms in welcome. “And welcome to you, daughter of Aura. May you be of the same heart with us, here in the Lightbearer’s place.”

“In the darkness, and in the Light,” Saruel replied with a respectful nod.

“Quarters have been prepared for you, and a meal. This is most fortuitous, Majesty. A delegation of Aurënfaie arrived three days ago, and await your coming at the guesthouse across the square from your own.”

“Aurënfaie?” Tamír glanced suspiciously at Iya and Saruel. “Is this your doing?”

“No, I’ve had no contact with anyone there,” Saruel assured her.

“Nor have I,” said Iya, though she looked very pleased with this news. “I did think some might show up, one place or another.”

The torchbearers took charge of their horses and led them around the final bend in the trail.

Pinched in a deeper cleft between two towering peaks, Afra at first glance was nothing more than a strange configuration of deep-set windows and doorways carved into the cliffs on either side of a small paved square. This was ringed with tall torches set into sockets in the stone. Carved fretwork and pillars of some ancient design framed the doors and windows, similar to the decorative work on the Keyhole, Tamír noted absently.

What captured her attention at the moment, however, was the dark red stone stele standing at the center of the square between two brightly burning braziers. There was a bubbling spring at its base, just as the wizards had described, welling up in a stone basin and flowing away through a paved channel into the shadows to her left. In the waning daylight, the leaping flames cast dancing shadows across the inscriptions that covered it.