The Oracle’s Queen

His father stayed her hand at last and carried the sobbing boy up to his cot.

For the first time in Niryn’s life, his father sat by his bed, looking down at him with something like actual interest.

“You don’t remember nothing, son? Are you telling me the truth?”

“No, Dad, nothing, until I seen the arbor burning.”

His father sighed. “Well, you done it, putting yourself out of a position. Wizard-born?” He shook his head and Niryn’s heart sank. Everyone knew what happened to those of their station unlucky enough to be born with a touch of wild power.

Niryn didn’t sleep at all that night, caught up in dire imaginings. His family would starve, and he’d be set out on the road to be marked and stoned, all because of what those young lords called fun! How he wished he had spoken up when he had the chance. His face burned at the thought of his own fruitless obedience.

That thought took root, watered with shame at how he’d let a single look from the guilty one silence him. If he’d spoken up, maybe they wouldn’t have cast him out! If those three boys hadn’t used him for their sport, or if his father had made them stop, or if Niryn had moved or turned sooner or tried to fight back—

If, if, if. It ate at him and he felt the dark feeling well up again. In the darkness, he felt his hands tingling and when he held them up, there were blue sparks dancing between his fingers like sheet lightning. It scared him and he thrust them into the water jug by his bed, fearing he’d set the bedclothes on fire.

The sparks stopped and nothing bad happened. And as his fear subsided, he began to feel something new, something else he’d never felt before.

It was hope.

He spent the next few days wandering the marketplaces, trying to catch the attention of the conjurers who plied their trade there, selling charms and doing fancy spells. None of them were interested in a gardener’s boy in homespun clothes. They laughed him away from their little booths.

He’d begun to think he might indeed have to starve or take to the road, when a stranger showed up at the cottage door while his parents were away at their work.

He was a stooped, ancient-looking man with long dirty whiskers, but he was dressed in a very fine robe. It was white, with silver embroidery around the neck and sleeves.

“Are you the gardener’s boy who can make fire?” the old man asked, staring hard into Niryn’s eyes.

“Yes,” Niryn replied, guessing what the old man was.

“Can you do it for me now, boy?” he demanded.

Niryn faltered. “No, sir. Only when I’m angry.”

The old man smiled and brushed past Niryn without an invitation. Looking around the spare, humble room, he shook his head, still smiling to himself. “Just so. Had your fill of ’em and lashed out, did you? That’s how it comes to some. That’s how it came to me. Felt good, I expect? Lucky for you that you didn’t set them on fire, or you’d not be sitting here now. There’s lots of wild seeds like yourself, that get themselves stoned or burned.”

He lowered himself into Niryn’s father’s chair by the hearth. “Come, boy,” he said, gesturing for Niryn to stand before him. He placed a gnarled hand on Niryn’s head and bowed his own for a moment. Niryn felt a strange tingle run down through his body.

“Oh, yes! Power, and ambition, too,” the old man murmured. “I can make something of you. Something strong. Would you like to be strong, boy, and not let young whelps like that take advantage of you ever again?”

Niryn nodded and the old man leaned forward, eyes glowing like a cat’s in the dim light of the cottage. “A quick answer. I can see your heart in those red eyes of yours; you’ve had a taste of what wizardry is, and you liked it, didn’t you?”

Niryn wasn’t certain that was true. It had scared him, but under this stranger’s knowing gaze, he felt that tingle again, even though the man had withdrawn his hand. “Did someone tell you what happened?”

“Wizards have an ear for rumor, lad. I’ve been waiting for a child like you, these many years.”

Niryn’s pinched, parched young heart swelled. It was the closest thing to praise he’d ever known, save for one time; he’d never forgotten the way Queen Agnalain had looked at him that day and how she said she thought he’d do great things. She’d seen something in him, and this wizard did, too, when all the rest wanted to cast him out like some rabid dog.

“Oh yes, I see it in those eyes,” the wizard murmured. “You have wit, and anger, too. You’ll enjoy what I have to teach you.”

“What is that?” Niryn blurted out.

The old man’s eyes narrowed, but he was still smiling. “Power, my boy. The uses of it and the taking of it.”

He stayed until Niryn’s parents came home, and made his offer. They gave Niryn over to the old man, accepting a purse of coins without even asking his name or where he would take their only child.

Niryn felt nothing. No pain. No sorrow. He looked at the two of them, so shabby compared to the old man in his robes. He saw how they feared the stranger but didn’t dare show it. Perhaps they wanted to be invisible now, too. But Niryn didn’t. He’d never felt more visible in the world than that night when he walked away from his home forever, at the side of his new master.

Master Kandin was right about Niryn. The talents that had lain dormant in him were like a bed of banked coals. All it took was a bit of coaxing and they leaped to burn with an intensity that surprised even his mentor. Master Kandin found Niryn an apt pupil and a kindred spirit. They both understood ambition, and Niryn found he lacked nothing of that.

Through the years of his apprenticeship, Niryn never forgot his time at the palace. He never forgot how it felt to be nothing in the eyes of another or the way the old queen had spoken to him. Those two elements combined in the crucible of his ambition. Kandin honed him like a blade and, when his mentor was done, Niryn was ready to return to court and make a place for himself. The lessons of his childhood were not forgotten, either. He still knew how to seem invisible to those from whom he wished to hide his power and purposes.

He’d missed his chance with Queen Agnalain. Erius had put his mother out of the way before Niryn could establish himself, and taken his young sister’s rightful place on the throne.

Niryn, now a respectable young wizard and loyal Skalan, had gone to pay his respects to the girl one day at the pretty little house her brother had installed her in on the palace grounds. By rights she should have been queen, and there was already muttering in the city about prophecies and the will of Illior. Niryn put no stock in priests, considering them nothing but skilled charlatans, but he wasn’t above putting their game to his own uses. A queen would be best.

The lessons he’d learned among the roses and flower beds came back to him then. The royal family was a garden in its own way, one that needed proper tending.

Ariani, the child of one of her mother’s many lovers, was the rootstock of the throne. As the only daughter of the queen, her claim was strong, perhaps strong enough to overthrow that of her brother, when she was old enough and carefully groomed and supported. Niryn had no doubt he could nurture a faction on her behalf. Sadly, he found the stock to be diseased. Ariani was very pretty and very intelligent, but the fatal weakness was in her already. She would suffer her mother’s fate, and earlier. It might have made her easier to control, but the people still had dark memories of her mother’s mad ways. No, Ariani would not do.

That decided, he insinuated himself into Erius’ court. The young king welcomed wizards at his feasts.

The young king was made of stronger stuff than his sister. Handsome and virile, strong in body and mind, Erius had already won the hearts of the people with a string of impressive victories against the Plenimarans. As weary of war as they were of royal madness, the Skalans turned a deaf ear to dusty prophecies and ignored the grumblings of the Illiorans. Erius was beloved.

Fortunately for Niryn, the king also had a strain of his mother’s weakness in him, but just enough to make him malleable. Like his father’s espaliered fruit trees, Niryn would trim and prune the young king’s pliant mind, bending it to the pattern that best suited his use. The process took time and patience, but Niryn had a great deal of both.

Niryn bided his time, finding other wizards he could use and forming the Harriers and their guard, ostensibly to serve the king. Niryn chose carefully, taking in only those he could be sure of.

With Erius he prepared the ground, discrediting any who stood in his way, most especially Illiorans, and gently coaxing the king into killing any female of the blood who might challenge his hold on the throne.

Erius grew more malleable as his mind became less stable, just as Niryn had foreseen, but there were always unforeseen events to contend with. Erius had five children, and the eldest daughter had shown great promise, but plague struck the household, killing all of the children save one, the youngest and a boy. Korin.

Niryn had a vision then, of a young queen, one of his own choosing, who would be the perfect rose of his garden. It was a true vision, too, that came to him in a dream. Like many wizards, he paid little more than lip service to their patron deity, the Lightbearer. Offerings and the drugged sacred smoke of the temples had nothing to do with their power. That came with the blood of their birth; a tenuous red tie back to whatever Aurënfaie wanderer had slept with some ancestor and given the capricious magic to their line. Nonetheless, he found himself offering up a rare prayer of gratitude when he woke from that dream. He had not seen the girl’s face, but he knew without question that he’d been shown the future queen who, with his careful guidance, would redeem the land.

Prince Korin would not have been the child Niryn would have chosen to breed his future queen from. There’d been other girls, and one of them would have made his task easier, letting the disaffected have their queen and their prophecy again. Even he could not discount the years of famine and illness that had blighted Erius’ reign. A girl would be best, but like any good gardener, Niryn must work with the shoots that matured.

It was about this same time that he found Nalia. He’d gone with his Harriers to dispatch her mother, a distant country cousin of the queen, with royal blood in her veins and that of her twin babes. One girl child had been comely, like her father. The other had inherited her mother’s disfigurement. Something like a vision stayed Niryn’s hand over the marked child; this was the next seedling for his garden. She would bear daughters of her own, if left to grow and properly tended. He secreted her away, making her first his ward and then, when the humor took him, his concubine. Wizard-born, he had no seed to plant in that fertile womb.

Korin was not a stupid boy, or an ignoble one, not at first. He instinctively distrusted Niryn from an early age. But he was weak-spirited. The wars kept the king away, and Korin and his Companions were left to run wild.

Niryn lent only the occasional small encouragement here and there. Some of the Companions were quite helpful, albeit unwittingly, as they led Korin into the wine houses and brothels of the city. Niryn began more rigorous tending when Korin began to spread his seed about. It was an easy matter, with his wizards and spies now well established, to put any royal bastards out of the way. Princess Aliya had been a regrettable pruning. The girl was healthy, and intelligent, too, but lacked the usual sort of flaw that he could exploit. No, she would in time prove to be a dangerous weed in his garden, strengthened by the prince’s love.

By the time Erius died, Korin was a dissipated young rake and a drunkard. The death of his pretty wife and the horror of the misshapen fruits of her womb left him broken and lost, and ripe for the first harvest.

Niryn broke from his pleasant reverie and looked up at the darkened tower again. There, high above this sheltered haven, the seed of the next season was being planted.

Chapter 11

After a lifetime as a free wizard, wandering where she chose, Iya now found herself not only with an untried, and at times unwilling young queen on her hands, but a pack of her own kind who needed organizing, as well. The Third Orëska had been a noble concept; now she and Arkoniel were faced with finding out whether or not their wizards could actually work together.

Tamír had kept her word and insisted from the start that Iya’s wizards be made welcome in Illardi’s house, despite the grumbling from some of the lords and generals. In return, they found ways to make themselves useful, making small useful charms like firechips and roof wards. Iya, Saruel, and Dylias all knew a bit of healing and helped where they could, with the drysians’ blessings.

Arkoniel’s own little group of wizards had arrived at the end of Lithion. Iya had been touched by the joy with which he’d greeted them. He’d truly missed them, especially a green-eyed boy of nine named Wythnir, whom he’d taken as his first pupil. He was a frail little thing, and shy, but Iya sensed the strong potential in him. She exchanged an approving look with Arkoniel, who was positively beaming.

Busy as Tamír was, she ordered a special banquet for them in her chambers with the other wizards and Companions that night, and Arkoniel proudly presented them.

The old ones, Lyan, Vornus, Iya’s friend Cerana, and a gruff, scowling, common-looking fellow named Kaulin were the first to bow to Tamír with their hands to their hearts.

“You are the queen that was foreseen, indeed,” Lyan said, speaking for them all. “By our hands, hearts, and eyes, we will gladly serve you, and Skala.”

The younger ones came forward next, a noble-looking pair in tattered finery, named Melissandra and Lord Malkanus, and a plain young fellow named Hain. He was about Arkoniel’s age and had the same aura of banked power about him.

The children came forward last, and Iya saw Tamír’s eyes light up as they were presented. Ethni was close to Tamír’s age, with only the faintest trace of magic about her. The twin girls, Ylina and Rala, weren’t much stronger, nor was little Danil. Wythnir shone among them like a jewel in a handful of river stones. This was the sort of child Iya had imagined, all those years ago when they first spoke of gathering wizards, but Arkoniel seemed delighted with all of them, regardless of their ability.

“Welcome, all of you,” said Tamír. “Arkoniel has told me good things about you, and your studies. I’m glad to see you here.”

“I understand you spent some time at our old home,” Ki added. He shot Arkoniel a grin. “I hope you didn’t find it too dreary there?”

“Oh no!” Rala said at once. “Cook makes the best cakes and mince tarts.”

Ki pulled a comical stricken face. “You’re right. Now I’m homesick.”

The children laughed at that, and it set the tone for the evening. Most of the older wizards seemed quite fond of the children and had them demonstrate their little tricks for the other guests after supper. It was mostly colored lights and bird calling, but Wythnir made a dish of hazelnuts fly about the room like a swarm of bees.

Iya’s wizards were quick to welcome the newcomers, too, and she and Arkoniel exchanged a happy look. Thirty-three wizards, counting themselves, plus a handful of newcomers who’d straggled in; it was a good start.

After they had the children settled in their new rooms, Arkoniel walked with her on the walls.

“Can you imagine it?” he’d said to her, eyes shining. “The children have made such tremendous progress, with only a few minor wizards for teachers. Think what they’ll learn from these powerful ones you’ve gathered! Oh, some of them don’t have the talent to be more than healers or charm makers, I know, but a few may grow to be great.”

“Especially that boy you’ve taken on, eh?”

Arkoniel’s face glowed with affection and pride. “Yes, Wythnir will be great.”

Iya said nothing, recalling how she’d thought the same of all her early pupils. Wythnir was certainly brighter than the others, but she knew from long experience that disappointment was as likely as success with one so young, even those who seemed promising.

More important than any single apprentice or wizard was the memory of the vision she’d had all those years ago: Arkoniel an old, wise man in a great house of wizards, with a different child by his side. She’d passed the vision on to him, and she sensed it taking hold ever more strongly, now that he’d had a small taste of success.

And Arkoniel loved children. That had come as something of a surprise to Iya, who had no use at all for ordinary ones, and rarely considered wizard-born as anything more than potential apprentices. She’d loved her own students, as much as she was capable of loving anyone, but knowing that each one would leave her and go their own way eventually, it didn’t do to get overly attached. Perhaps Arkoniel would come to understand that in time, but for now, he was seeing that shining palace, full of life and learning. It showed in his eyes, and Iya knew better than to stand in the way of Illior’s will. Arkoniel was fated for a different path than the one she and her predecessors had trodden.

He still carried the cursed bowl, too, and guarded it well. Perhaps he was fated to find a safe place for it. That was on the knees of the gods, too. Iya had no regrets, and new challenges to face.

Dylias and the Ero wizards had some experience at unity, having banded together to protect themselves from the Harriers. Iya would have been happy to leave the demands of leadership to him, but everyone seemed determined to defer to her.

“The Oracle gave the vision to you,” Arkoniel laughingly reminded her when she grumbled in the days that followed. It seemed someone was always coming to her with some question of magic, and there were always children underfoot. “You are Tamír’s protector. Naturally they look to you.”

“Protector, eh?” Iya muttered. “She still hardly speaks to me.”

“She’s better with me now, but there’s still a wariness there. Do you think she’s guessed at the truth?”

“No, and we must put her off as long as we can, Arkoniel. She cannot have any distractions now and she still needs us. Perhaps she’ll never ask. It would be better so.”

With Dylias’ help, they kept watch as best they could across the sea toward Plenimar. Others stayed near Tamír by turns, ready to protect her from any threat. This had to be done discreetly, with so many of Tamír’s new allies openly distrustful of their kind.

Iya was equally distrustful of many of them, these nobles and warriors. Eyoli was recovered from his wounds and had already proven his worth. The young mind-clouder could walk into any encampment and move about freely, virtually unnoticed, listening and watching. Coupled with Arkoniel’s strange new blood spell and Tharin’s long memory for loyalties and intrigues, Iya judged Tamír to be as well guarded as could be managed.

She also found a sound ally in the Oracle’s high priest, Imonus. The man had stayed on all this time and showed no signs of leaving. He and the two others who’d come with him, Lain and Porteon, spent their days tending the makeshift Temple of the Stele, as it was called now. People came every day to see it, and to hear from the high priest’s own lips that their new queen was indeed Illior’s chosen one.

Imonus had gathered the surviving Illioran priests from Ero and counseled them to set up makeshift temples in the camps. He and his own priests established the largest of these, setting up the golden stele and offering braziers under a canopy in the courtyard of Illardi’s estate, just inside the gates. Anyone coming to see Tamír had to pass it and be reminded by the prophecy of her right to rule.

Imonus spoke with the authority of the Lightbearer, and the devout believed. They left small offerings of flowers and coins in the baskets at the foot of the great tablet and touched it for luck. Destitute as most of them were, people nonetheless found food to bring to the priests, placing wizened apples and chunks of bread in the covered baskets. Then they cast their wax votives and feathers onto the ornate bronze braziers, rescued from some temple in Ero. These burned night and day, filling the air with the scent of the Illiorans’ pungent incense and the acrid undertone of burned feathers. Imonus and his brethren were always there, tending the fires, bestowing blessings, interpreting dreams, and offering hope.

Iya approached most priests with certain skepticism. She’d seen too many of them profit from false promises and false prophecies. But Imonus was honest, and devoted to Tamír.

“Our daughter of Thelátimos is strong,” he remarked as he and Iya sat together in the great hall after the evening meal. “She’s well-spoken and I see how she lifts the hearts of those she talks to.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed that. Perhaps she had a touch of Illior’s inspiration?”

“More than a touch,” Imonus said. “She believes more in building than power. This will be both a blessing and a burden to her.”

“Is that a prophecy?” asked Iya, raising an eyebrow at him over her mazer.

He just smiled.

Chapter 12

As the sunnier days of Nythin lengthened across the land and the roads dried, Tamír discovered that the news of the destruction of Ero and her own transformation had not always traveled in tandem. Confused emissaries were still arriving from distant holdings. Some came with belated replies to the war summons sent out by King Erius, expecting to find the king still on the throne. Others came looking for word of the miraculously transformed princess. A few brave souls carried terse missives frankly denouncing her as a sham.

It was from these newcomers that they heard rumors that Korin was at Cirna and building up an army there.

“That means we’re cut off from the nobles in the territories north of there, except by sea,” Tharin noted.

“And we still don’t have enough ships to matter,” Illardi added. New keels were being laid down at boatyards from Volchi to Erind, but not all of those ports had declared for the new queen. Even if they had, it took time to build ships of that size.

“Well, at least we know where he is,” said Ki.

Arkoniel and Iya tried to verify this, using the wizard eye and window spells, but to no avail.

“You can’t see into the fortress at all?” Tamír asked in disbelief.

“Whenever I try, it feels as if someone is sticking knives in my eyes,” Arkoniel told her. “Niryn has thrown up some sort of protection around the entire fortress.”

“Did he catch you trying to peek?”

“Perhaps, but we’ve been very careful,” Iya said. “He’d know to guard against such magic.”

“Is Niryn stronger than you?”

“It’s not such a difficult sort of ward. The Harriers were powerful in their way, and there are at least four of them left besides Niryn. It won’t do to underestimate them. We only saw them at work, burning wizards. We don’t know what else they’re capable of,” Iya warned. “You’ve seen what our little band can do when we put our heads together, after only a few months. Niryn has had years to explore and test the powers of his own people. I suspect they are still a force to be reckoned with, even diminished as they are.”

“What can we do, then?”

“Send more scouts,” Arkoniel suggested.

For now, that seemed to be her only option, and she did so and returned to learning how to rule.

She spent each morning holding court in the makeshift throne room they’d made of Illardi’s hall, sitting on the canopied dais, attended by Illardi, Tharin, her Companions, and a few of Iya’s wizards.

It still felt odd, sitting in the place of honor, but everyone else treated her like she was already queen. The arrangements for the displaced and incoming lords and warriors still took up much of her attention. There were endless needs to be addressed, disputes to be heard. Fights broke out and the whole camp was placed under military tribunal. The citizens were growing impatient with their situation. The miracle of their new queen was old news now; they were hungry and dirty and wanted more than the promises of their priests that life would improve.