James Clemens - Shadowfall

Dart found herself staring at him. In the moonlight, his skin appeared even darker, a bronzed sculpture in prayer. Then his group began the winding climb to the High Chapel. He unclasped his hands and followed.

Dazed, Dart continued to stand there, frozen in place, a statue, too.

A small hiss drew her attention. Laurelle motioned to her. She and Margarite, still hand in hand, were heading for the stairs. Pupp followed after them, sniffing at the edges of their dresses.

Dart found her feet moving on their own. She hurried to the girls, finding comfort in the familiarity of her fellow students. As she joined them, Laurelle reached out with her free hand and gripped Dart’s. All past sins forgotten in the terror of the moment. Even Margarite nodded to her, eyes wide.

The last thirdfloor boy mounted the stair.

The girls stared at one another. Who would go first? Laurelle took a deep breath, steeled her grip upon her two companions, then let go. She crossed stolidly to the stairs and climbed them. Margarite was right at her heels.

Pupp planted his forepaws on the lowest step and wagged the stump of his brass tail. He stared back at Dart. For the briefest flicker, she again saw a strange, dark intelligence shining from his eyes, studying her. Then it was gone, snuffed away by unseen winds. Dart headed to the stairs. Laurelle and Margarite were already two steps ahead. She hurried to close the gap. Her boots clanged on the brass stairs. The rail was ice to her fingers.

She stared at the line of boys vanishing away through the blindingly bright doors overhead. Nothing could be seen beyond. The line of supplicants continued to be swallowed away.

At last, Dart and the other two girls reached the top of the stairs. The open doors lay ahead. Laurelle glanced back to them, her face drained of blood. Tears brimmed her eyes.

Words came to Dart’s lips. It was the first she had spoken since entering the hall below. “Be strong,” she whispered.

Laurelle closed her eyes for a breath, opened them, and nodded. She turned and strode through the smoky doorway. Margarite ran after her. Dart moved more slowly, led by Pupp.

The group marched through the clouded nave. They passed braziers piled with dried darkleaf, the leaves crisping and curling in flame, roiling with thick, acrid smoke. In the chapel beyond, a single greatdrum beat in slow rhythm, guiding their steps forward. The sonorous beat thrummed against the rib, against the heart.

Once past the braziers, the smoke cleared as the domed chapel opened before them. It was like stepping out of a tunnel and into open air. The High Chapel stood atop the tallest tower of the Conclave. It was said that the only higher tower was Chrism’s own keep.

Dart’s gaze immediately drew upward to the glass eye in the domed roof. The full face of the lesser moon shone down at them. The greater moon had long set, leaving the night sky to the beauty of its pregnant sister.

The illumination of the moon limned the entire room in silver. There was no other source of light. Then again none was needed. It was nearly as bright as midday.

Dart trailed the others into the chamber.

Tiered rows of seats and balconies circled the High Chapel, climbing half the wall. The highest tiers had long gone rotten and were blocked off from use. Shadowy shapes filled the lower benches and balconies: the mistresses and masters of the Conclave, the cloistered entourage that accompanied the great Oracles from far-off lands, and the families of supplicants with wealth enough to be here.

Dart noted Laurelle searching around, a hopeful glow on her face.

But there was not much time to scan the gallery. Already the other students were filling the supplicant stoops. The kneeling benches were raw squallwood, arranged in an oval, facing inward. Dart kept in step behind Margarite, but with her eyes on the chamber, Dart’s foot knocked into the corner of a stoop. She flew forward, arms outstretched. She bumped into Margarite, who kept her feet.

Dart was not as fortunate.

With a startled yelp, she landed on her hands, skinning her palms raw and landing flat on her belly. Dart quickly pushed up amid small sounds of amusement from those in attendance, but it quickly hushed. Dart scrambled to her feet, ignoring her stinging hands, and hurried after the two girls.

Margarite glanced back at her, mortified. Laurelle simply covered her mouth. Dart motioned them forward. They hurried after the last boy and took the three stoops beside him. Dart noted it was the bronze boy. He glanced at her, then away, his face unreadable.

Dart gratefully sank to her kneeling bench, resting her elbows on the rail. There were many empty stoops, as vacant and dusty as the upper balconies, more than could be accounted for by the missing thirdfloor girls. The school must have been more populous in the distant past.

Before Dart could consider this oddity, the bells chimed one final peal. From a door opposite the supplicants, a row of white-draped figures drifted into the room.

The Oracles.

A small red-liveried servant attended each figure, guiding their blind masters. As each Oracle entered the chapel, their snowy cowls were tossed back. They bore red strips of silk across their eyes, or rather where their eyes should have been. From her studies, Dart knew that the Oracles’ eyes were burned to empty sockets by the blood of the god they represented. Emblazoned on their foreheads was the sigil of the god they served.

No one knew how many Oracles would show up at each ceremony, seeking replacements for their lieges’ handmaidens or handmen. It was a matter of utter secrecy. Even the Oracles themselves had no foreknowledge of how many or what manner of servants were needed in other gods’ households. Handmaidens and handmen, called collectively Hands, lived exultant but short lives, exposed to powerful Graces that slowly altered their bodies. Replacements were needed regularly by the households of the hundred realms.

The Oracles were led into the center of the chapel, surrounded by the supplicants’ stoops. They faced the hopeful group, abandoning their red servants for the moment, concentrating on the circle of young men and women, boys and girls.

Dart noted the sigils: Yzellan of Tempest Sound, Isoldya of Mistdale, Dragor of Blasted Canyon, Quint of Five Forks, Cor Ven of Chadga Falls, and on and on. The number of Oracles was not large, but they represented some of the finest houses.

A small murmur spread through the assembly as the last Oracle entered the chapel and revealed himself. It was a very old man, borne by two servants and still needing a cane.

Dart squinted at his sigil on his forehead-?-and gasped with recognition.

Chrism.

Here was the Oracle of Myrillia’s eldermost god. It had been three years since Chrism had called for a new servant.

As this elderly Oracle took his place among the others, another servant ran in from the hallway. He searched the room, then hurried to one of the Oracles. The two bent in whispers. As the Oracle straightened, his cowl was drawn back over his head. He withdrew with the new servant, leaving the chapel amid fervent murmuring from the gallery.

Dart had read the sigil on the departing Oracle. Meeryn of the Summering Isles. How odd. She could not recall an Oracle ever withdrawing in the middle of a ceremony. Something drastic must have transpired in Meeryn’s household.

As Meeryn’s Oracle left, the greatdrum began to beat again, slow and solemn. It filled the vast space, making it seem larger, yet at the same time more intimate.

It was the signal to begin the choosing.

Dart knew what to do from here. Kneeling, with her elbows already on the rail, she pushed out her hands, palms up, and bowed her brow to her forearms in the posture of supplication. As she did so, she was acutely aware of the sting of her abraded hands. It was shameful to offer such soiled palms, but then again, it was somehow fitting, considering the corruption of her body and spirit.