It’s easy to forget in this desolation that we are here to receive the traditional blessing for our supposed upcoming nuptials. We need to keep up the charade until we disappear into the Waste. Both Loegria and Penrith need to ready troops for war. Which buys us a few weeks, possibly, to solve Dietan’s problem.
The temple of the great Oracle of Alba looms above the city, tall and proud. Unlike the other buildings that surround us, its limestone exterior is clean and gleaming. Gold inlays in the stone glint in the rogue rays of the sun. It’s nothing short of breathtaking—clearly cared for lovingly.
In the beginning of the third epoch, the Rings of Fate were crafted here. It was once filled with mages, Vindar, and a host of holy leaders who held services and tended to citizens in need.
Now, for all its beauty, it is desolate.
We walk over the threshold of the temple’s wide, bronze double doors. In the dimly lit antechamber, a man in cream-colored robes sweeps under a row of hanging braziers.
“Greetings, Father,” says Dietan.
“Prince Dietan,” the priest gasps, dropping his broom. “Your Highness, what brings you here?”
“I’ve come to seek the Oracle’s blessing for our engagement.” He smiles, putting an arm around my waist. “This is my intended, Aren of Evandale.”
“Dear me, I wish we had been more prepared,” the priest says. “Was there no messenger?”
“It appears our messengers have been delayed,” says Marcus, coughing.
The priest looks around at the depleted temple, at the desolation of the city behind us, and smiles sadly. “That’s not unusual these days, I’m afraid.”
“It’s all right,” says Dietan. “We’re, um, pressed for time.”
“I’m sure you are needed back in Lundenwic,” the priest says. “Well, come into the house of the Oracle, my children, and we will bless you with the waters of Alba.” He leads us inside.
It’s cool and dark in the temple, and I’m relieved to find it doesn’t smell like the smoke outside. Instead, it’s peaceful and clean. Stone pillars line the vestibule, and the domed ceiling has a singular skylight. Diffused light washes the room in an ethereal light. It’s a sanctuary awash in gentle healing magic.
The priest stands before us at an enormous marble basin filled with water on a smooth stone pedestal. In a place of honor at the far end of the room is a large statue of a woman, with one hand outstretched and an inscrutable expression on her face. She is watching over us—the Oracle, the revered emissary of the Anemoi. Her presence looms large but is a calming balm. It’s a nice reprieve from recent events.
The priest dips a scepter into the basin and recites a few lines of prayer in a tongue I don’t understand. Without further ceremony, he flicks the water at Dietan and then at me. I blink in surprise as the water splashes into my eyes. I didn’t expect that. As we bow our heads, I share a small smile with Dietan, who discreetly wipes his face.
The priest puts one hand on Dietan’s head, but when he places the other on mine, he gasps. I feel a tiny shock—like static in a winter knit—pass between his palm and my head. He looks at me intensely. “Aren of Evandale, yes?”
“Yes,” I reply, suddenly nervous.
The priest murmurs to himself. His eyes roll back in his head ever so slightly.
“What’s wrong, Father?” Dietan asks.
The priest locks eyes with me once more. “It’s been a long time since the Oracle has spoken. She has sent me a vision.”
Dietan raises his eyebrows.
“You must never leave his side, my daughter,” the priest says, his hand heavy on my head.
“What?” I question, startled.
The priest saw me in a vision?
I would have expected a more dramatic display when the Oracle spoke—but I’m no expert on holy things.
“What did you see?” Dietan asks. “Please enlighten us, Father.”
But the priest only shakes his head, distressed. “If you continue on by yourself, my son, there is only darkness and death.” The priest turns to me. “I implore you—do not leave him,” he repeats, looking meaningfully at me. “Never. For the good of all Albion. Promise that.”
Sweat forms on my brow at the priest’s conviction, and I nod my head. “I won’t leave him. I would never,” I breathe.
Next to me, Dietan squirms.
