Page 69 of A Kiss of Hammer and Flame

The woman couldn’t have been much over five feet tall. Even Cahra rose above her, despite being of average height herself. The Oracle’s garments, like her mountain dwelling, were humble, homespun and not the faded black of Wyldaern’s robes but something more like what Cahra would have seen walking the Traders’ Quadrant in Kolyath or even Luminaux – modest, functional peasant-wear. Yet one thing stood out as striking to Cahra, besides the woman’s dark complexion and tight curls.

It was her eyes: a prismatic shade of lavender, like amethyst, that made Cahra blink.

She’d seen that crystalline colour before.

The Oracle’s gaze locked onto Cahra and she somehow wondered if the woman had heard her ‘crone’ thought. Did All-seeing mean mind-reading?

But the Oracle just turned to Wyldaern, a smile breezing across her wizened features. She surveyed their company, holding the front door open. ‘I am Thelaema. Tea?’

It was then Cahra remembered where she’d seen amethyst in someone’s eyes before, and saw it again as Wyldaern passed her, the Seer’s irises edged in the same hue.

Cahra joined Siarl, Piet and Queran in a shared look as they crossed the threshold and trailed Wyldaern into the Oracle’s home, shutting the mottled door behind them.

Scanning left to right in the deceptively spacious cottage, Cahra wandered into a curious pocket of the house. Instead of walls, this room was made almost entirely of windows, the curved glass panes doming high overhead, like she was standing in a giant bubble. It had a generous view of the scenic gardens and could have been a sitting room, except for the peculiar items Thelaema had left on display: an obsidian mirror; an etched bowl of brass, filled with water; and an immense crystal ball. Cahra bent over, peering suspiciously as though she might glimpse a miniature of herself inside it.

Piet motioned to Siarl and Queran, already inspecting the house for access points other than the one they’d entered through.

‘So many windows,’ Queran murmured.

‘Do you not find my home sufficiently secure, Queran Head-splitter?’ Thelaema spoke without looking at him, arranging six bone-white teacups around a large teapot on an occasion table between two large sofas.

Queran’s eyebrows were a fox-red line. ‘Arrowhead-splitter,’ he corrected, adding, ‘Madam Oracle.’

‘Ah, but arrowheads were not your first victims, were they, son of war?’

Piet turned at the remark, Wyldaern placing a hand between the blond warrior and Thelaema.

‘Be still, Piet, kin of Klaas, Luminaux’s Gavel of Justice. I could level such truths at any, nay, all of your Prince’s merry band. Or any of the tri-kingdom armies.’ The Oracle’s gaze was fierce despite its pastel tint. ‘Besides, you are not why we are gathered.’ She looked at Cahra. ‘But you are safe. A perk, if you will, from the days and ways of old.’

Piet stationed himself outside the room with the curved windows, Siarl peeling off to patrol the house. Queran trailed after her, frowning, an arrow slack in his hand.

‘The ways of old?’ Cahra repeated. Thelaema gingerly lowered herself into her seat, a rickety chair at the head of the walnut table, and nodded.

Cahra sat on the sofa by the door, Wyldaern opposite, pouring them cups of herbal tea. It made her think of Queen Avenais in Luminaux.

‘I don’t understand,’ Cahra told the Oracle. ‘Luminaux welcomed Wyldaern and nature magick, and herbs aren’t forbidden like in Kolyath. Why are you living all the way out here?’ She glanced between the Seers.

Thelaema pinned her with a look. ‘As I believe that you know, once trust is broken, it is toilsome to repair in full. Seers may have lost the kingdoms’ trust, but so did they ours. And so we have remained, as recluses in our Wilds. However,’ the Oracle said, ‘that is not your true question.’ Thelaema leaned into a sun-bleached cushion and sighed, a grateful smile forming on her lips. She opened her eyes, peering at Cahra, seeking something. ‘And you are Cahra. You took great pains to come here, and I am thankful. For while I am fond of visits from my favoured pupil,’ she said, patting Wyldaern’s hand, the Seer handing the woman a teacup, ‘it is you and I that were to meet.’ Thelaema straightened, as if anticipating Cahra’s question. ‘I am High Oraculine Thelaema, last of the Order of Descry, the Seers of Hael’stromia and Keepers of the Reliquus.’

Cahra latched onto what she knew. ‘The Reliquus. You mean Hael?’

Thelaema smiled. ‘As Keepers of the Reliquus, we three Oracles were charged with being responsible for Hael’stromia’s, indeed the realm’s, most valued gift. We were wardens of the Netherworld’s supreme achievement. The power of creation and destruction. The—’

‘The weapon,’ Cahra breathed.

Thelaema’s pale eyes flashed. ‘Yes.’ She paused. ‘Your questions are many, as they should be,’ the Oracle said, reaching out to Cahra, who jumped at the unexpected contact. ‘However, the answers…’ Thelaema and Wyldaern exchanged a look, as if speaking silently. ‘The information will be new to you, what it means. I know that there will be consequences. What I can tell you is that we are here. The Descry, as ever, serve Hael’stromia.’

Cahra’s brow creased. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Cahra.’ Thelaema commanded her attention kindly. ‘You were orphaned as an infant. How do you know your name?’

‘I don’t know.’ Her earliest memories were of living as a beggar on the streets. ‘Maybe I named myself.’ She shrugged, leaning back.

Thelaema studied her. ‘And you can recall no earlier?’

She lowered her head, hair falling in a shroud around her. What was there to recall? She’d been a child of death and destitution. ‘No.’

Thelaema nodded. ‘So, you do not remember your life in the Wilds?’

---