James West: Queen of the North

Have you come again to taunt me, Gavin, or will you finally grant me the blessing of death?

Hearing the Oracle’s voice deep inside his head, far below the fertile soil from which sprang dreams and nightmares, left the man befuddled. Gavin? That’s not who I am … or is it? Despite that uncertainty, he knew he stood in the Celestial Chamber of the Ilesma Temple, a place where only a select few could question the Oracle and obtain the secrets of unborn tomorrows.

He glanced toward the ghostly radiance, the essence of the Oracle caught within a spherical cage of silver mesh hovering above a forelimb of graven silver, itself thrusting up from the marble floor. Its carved obsidian talons curled below the sphere, frozen in the act of snatching it from the air. The ensorcelled metalwork of both the cage and the forelimb caught the starlight falling through the portal in the domed ceiling, drawing the radiance into itself and setting the metal alight with a spectral glow.

Do you take pleasure from my torment? the Oracle asked. I have often thought it must be so, Gavin, even as I have long wondered why my suffering should please you.

The man hesitated to answer. A vague notion warned him there was a grave danger in responding to this being unless fully prepared. He stared at the throbbing light, drawn to it, yet repulsed.

Gavin? The Oracle’s voice was curious now, and somehow sly.

The man narrowed his eyes. Gavin. The name sounded familiar. Gavin is my name … but only here … and only to this being . Gavin, the real Gavin-the man saw in his mind the image of a towheaded boy with a lopsided grin-had been a favorite playmate. I took his name to use in this place-

All at once, his sense of self solidified. Just as quickly, he constructed an impenetrable barrier around his deepest thoughts. If given a chance, the Oracle could tear holes in the essence of a seeker’s mind as easily as it parted the veil guarding sight of future things. I am master here , the man-Gavin-assured himself, just as his predecessors had been masters of the Oracle in their time.

Gavin?

“I have never taunted you,” Gavin said, finally coming around to the spirit’s first question. As to granting your death, you shall never have it . “Nor have I ever taken pleasure in your suffering.” This was not entirely true, but what he felt concerning the Oracle was more complex than could be described by base emotions.

The Oracle didn’t respond to his assurances, but Gavin felt something move between them along their ethereal bond. Frustration, fear, killing wrath?

At length, the Oracle spoke again, its tone now sharp. Your mere freedom taunts me as much as your living flesh-two things your ancestors stole from me long ago .

Gavin waved a dismissive hand. “You speak of thefts, but you and your kind lost that war. How is your failure any fault of mine?”

Should the vanquished suffer for eternity? Should they never have the chance to live free again?

Gavin circled slowly over polished marble tiles the hue of deep ice, his shoulders banded with starlight and shadow. “Had your kind triumphed, how would you have treated my forebearers?”

Ringing silence met this.

“You cannot answer, can you? Not honestly , at any rate. For to do so would be to admit that your treatment of my ancestors would have been swift annihilation-as it always was, before our spellcasters bested your kindred.”

Not necessarily .

Gavin chuckled dryly. “How you deceive yourself. We have old histories and older songs reaching back to the days when my people were little more than beasts. Those tales speak of your conduct toward the folk you vanquished. You and yours were as gods-cruel, brutal, uncaring gods. Were our roles reversed … well, that would be rather difficult, since I’d never have been born, nor my father, nor his father, nor his father’s father, and so on?”

Would you not choose annihilation over eternal enslavement?

“ Choice is of no concern here, but rules alone. If those rules happen to include repaying in some small way the cruelty you delivered upon my ancient kindred, such is but a spoil of war.”

At least admit that your people won the war through trickery .

“Has there ever been a war fought and won through purely noble deeds? I think not,” Gavin answered quickly, before the Oracle could attempt to twist obscure legends into fact. “Victory is victory, no matter how it is achieved.”

Would you believe me if I told you my kind had grown beyond seeking victories, and that we had chosen instead to seek companionship and alliances?

Gavin had heard these lies before. “No Oracle, I would not believe that in the least.”

The Oracle suddenly asked, What do you seek?

Gavin paused in his circling. “A sickness infects Targas.”

The sickness you speak of came with your kind. Your enduring presence has only further befouled this once great city to its heart. I cannot help you .

Gavin resumed his circuit around the silver cage. “Cannot, Oracle … or will not?” Silence held within his mind. He knew the answer the Oracle would give before it came, but this was a game he never tired of playing. A game of boundaries and authority, of victors and the vanquished, of rulers and the ruled.

If I knew the answer you seek , came the Oracle’s grudging reply, you know I would have no choice but to give it to you.

Gavin chuckled softly. The Oracle was simply delaying the inevitable revelation. As was his wont, Gavin played along. “Of course, of course. You must forgive me. Such trifling matters regarding your submissiveness often slip my mind.”

I forgive you nothing .

Now Gavin laughed outright. “Don’t be so petulant!”

Free me, the Oracle warned with true anger, and I shall redefine petulance for you.

Gavin halted, an uneasy tingle flashing over his skin. “You know I can no more free you than you can free yourself,” he said more sharply than he intended-fear of reprisal did not trouble him, but rather the fear that he had somehow let the Oracle rattle him. He couldn’t allow the imprisoned spirit to gain even an inch of ground within his mind. I’m Gavin! I’m master here ! he thought, reinforcing the barriers against the caged spirit.

Silence again, wide and dark and complete.

Gavin waited, breathless, a sudden suspicion growing large in his heart that the Oracle had somehow kept hidden a secret resistance or power, something as ancient as itself. Yet, if the Oracle had any secrets, why not use them before now? The answer, obviously, was that there was no secret power.

Gavin gave himself a shake, laughed off his jitters.

You sound afraid , the Oracle said.

“Now who is doing the taunting?” Gavin disliked the tremor in his voice.

How could I taunt you, Gavin, the master of me, my ruler, my persecutor?

“Enough!” Gavin shouted. When the Oracle had spoken his name, he heard a question, felt a probing for his true identity. His fear grew into yawning gulf. He must learn the answers he sought, and then promptly leave the Celestial Chamber. “Tell me how to heal my city!”

Your city? Is that how you think of Targas, the Everlasting City of Light?

“If Targas is not my city,” Gavin said, “then it belongs to no one.” He and the Oracle might bandy about lies and ambiguities, but in this, there was only a single truth. Targas sheltered his people, but the city was his, and he would happily destroy its glorious walls, its crystal spires, and its undying light, before he let anyone push him from his rightful place. After a time, the Oracle spoke the words he wanted to hear.