Bryan Davis - Eye of the Oracle

“What did she want?”

“For me to do some of her dirty work, but it’s not worth talking about. Besides, I’m in big enough trouble already. Nabal killed the other brick maker, a boy named Raphah, the day after he was called to Morgan’s room. Raphah never told me why he was called, but I think he refused Morgan, too.”

“If Nabal’s gone, he can’t whip you to death.”

“True, but there’s always the chasm.”

Sapphira nodded. “How could I forget?”

“I’m going to sneak back to her room and see if I can get some of that fruit.”

“No!” she hissed. “If she catches you, she’ll kill you for sure!”

“No, she won’t. Before I refused her, she offered me some fruit to. . well, bribe me, I guess. I’ll just say I’m coming back to collect it.”

Sapphira shook her head. “She won’t believe that excuse. She’s not stupid.”

“I know, but the tree isn’t the real reason I want to go. While I’m there, maybe I can find something that’ll help me get out of this place.”

Sapphira tightened her hand into a fist. Who was she to try to keep the poor guy in this awful prison? Her voice spiked with compassion. “Just don’t get caught, okay?”

“I won’t. I promise.”

“Hey! Paili made some stew that’s okay to eat, and I have quite a bit. Want some?”

“Sure, but how?”

Sapphira glanced around the dim hovel. What could she use to channel stew through such a small hole? Finding nothing, she dipped her fingertip into the lukewarm liquid. A smile broke through. “Uh. . Elam?”

“Yes?”

“Have you heard how the spawns eat when they’re in the growth chambers?”

“Uh-huh. I think so.”

She plunged her whole hand into the stew. “Do you mind being a spawn for a few minutes?”

“I. . I guess not.”

Sapphira pulled her dripping fingers from the pot and squeezed her hand through the hole, pushing as hard as she could. When it wouldn’t go any farther, she waited. After a few seconds, a wet, tickling sensation brushed her fingertips. Imagining Elam on the other side, she suppressed a giggle, a feeling of warm satisfaction flooding her body.

She pushed through six finger-loads of stew, trying to handle more with each attempt, but during the sixth feeding, a stern voice penetrated their hovel.

“Mara!”

Sapphira whispered, “It’s Morgan!” Using her foot, she slid the stew pot behind Paili and yanked her hand through the hole. Quickly wiping the remaining stew on the back of her tunic, she stood in front of Paili.

A lantern lit up their hovel, and Morgan’s face appeared in the dugout entry as she leaned in from the corridor. “Mara. You must come with me.”

Sapphira didn’t even glance back at Paili. She just hoped the lantern’s light couldn’t reach behind the girl’s body. “Yes’m. I’m coming.” She tried to read Morgan’s expression. Could she have discovered their plot somehow?

“What’s that smell?” Morgan asked, wrinkling her nose.

Sapphira blocked Morgan’s view and raised her arm up near her mistress’s face. “Stew. I got some on my sleeve.”

“Rather sloppy,” Morgan said, straightening to allow Sapphira to exit. “I expect better from you.”

“Yes’m.” Sapphira followed Morgan, watching the lady’s long legs. It seemed strange that she always wore the same clothes, even at night. Most of the girls took off their outer dresses and slept wearing their inner tunics, while some who lived on the hot, lower level just took a sheet to bed, wrapping up in it later as the brick ovens cooled during the night. Morgan, however, seemed to be able to adjust to any temperature instantly.

Morgan stopped at the control room. The door had been left ajar, so she pushed it open and walked in. Sapphira followed, and when her eyes adjusted to the brighter light, she noticed two men examining the jars on her worktable at the back of the room. The taller of the two seemed familiar, yet not quite recognizable. The other man looked tired and battle-worn, but she knew her supervisor right away.

“Mardon!” she cried. “You’re back!” She ran toward him, but he held up his hand, halting her. The other man pushed Mardon to the side and slapped her savagely across her face with the back of his hand, knocking her to the floor. Black spots speckled her vision as she laid her hand on her throbbing cheek. Warm liquid trickled through her fingers. Blood.

Too dizzy to rise, Sapphira lay on the cold stone, listening to the two men babbling in an odd language. With her cheek stinging as if on fire, she pushed up to her knees, and two strong, female hands helped her to her feet. Morgan’s voice interrupted the two babblers. “Stop fighting, you fools!”

Through blurry vision Sapphira saw Mardon push the other man away, but she still couldn’t tell who he was. She caressed her wounded cheek, smearing blood across her fingers. “Did I do something wrong?”

Morgan picked up a gray cloth from the table. “Oh, you won’t get an answer,” she said, dabbing Sapphira’s cheek. “It seems, Mara. . Oh, excuse me. It’s Sapphira now, isn’t it? Well, I mentioned this to you before, but it seems that Mardon no longer understands us.” She handed Sapphira the cloth and set her fists on her hips. “He now speaks a crude language I have never heard before, a clucking, guttural language fit for poultry or swine.”

Sapphira held the cloth over her wound and touched Mardon’s arm. “Thank you for trying to protect me, but I guess you can’t understand that, either, can you?”

Mardon just stared at her, blinking.

“No, he doesn’t.” Morgan waved her hand toward the other man. “His own father, the king, doesn’t understand him.”

As the lantern light flickered on the king’s face, Sapphira finally recognized him. Though one cheek and his forehead were wrinkled with scar tissue, she remembered his deep brown eyes. “King Nimrod!” She dipped her head and curtsied, then looked up at him again, hoping her tears might draw some compassion. “I’m so sorry about that egg ” She covered her mouth with her fingers. “I forgot. He doesn’t understand, either.”

“No,” Morgan said, “but apparently he remembers you all too well. What did the Ovulum do?”

Nimrod slid a ring up and down his finger. Sapphira winced at the sight of the mounted jewel that had ripped her cheek. “The egg said some things I didn’t understand, and then dragons came and destroyed the tower. I guess he thought it was my fault.” She nodded toward the king. “Did a dragon burn his face?”

“From what I can gather. He uses hand signals quite well, so I’m pretty sure a dragon was involved. He also draws pictures when he tries to communicate.”

“Oh.” Mara folded her cloth in half and laid it on the table. “Well, I guess that helps.”

“Yes, and that’s why I called you here. Because of your obvious intelligence, Naamah and I believe you are the one most capable of teaching these two brutes how to speak the original tongue again. In fact, with all the languages now being used in the upper world, Naamah and I also have much to learn. So, we will soon organize a language school, of sorts, and call upon your linguistic talents to make sure we are all proficient in the new tongues. Your first students, however, are Nimrod and Mardon. Even though they are men, they still have a reasonable supply of brainpower.”

Sapphira shifted back and forth on her feet. “I will do whatever you request of me, of course, but may I also ask a question?”

Morgan sighed. “If you must.”

“Did they notice the tower museum when they came through the portal? Were they excited to see that it survived the dragon fire?”

“They have not seen the museum.” Morgan picked up a piece of graphite and handed it to Sapphira. “There are other ways to enter the lower realms, my dear, but we can discuss that later. For now, we had better get to work on something completely different. We are going to advance your spawn to mobility training immediately.”