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.
With her head bowed, she saw nothing. Still, she closed her eyes to staunch the hot tears that threatened. She heard the shuffle and brush of robes as the Oracles spread out among the supplicants, searching with the senses of the god they represented, seeking the perfect match to fill their need.
Dart’s hands trembled. The stoop was all that kept her upright. Around her, she heard startled cries from the other students as they were chosen.
After so much pageantry, the selection was a simple matter. The Oracle would simply place a small gray slate stone, the size of a dol-jin tile, into a student’s upraised palm, claiming the supplicant for their god. There was no appeal or argument allowed. In the High Chapel, under the first moon of summer, the Oracles were their gods.
The chosen would then be raised from the stoop by the red-liveried servant and brought to stand by his or her new master. Only then could they look upon the tile and know which of the nine Graces they had been assigned. The primary quadricles were the most exalted: blood, seed, menses, sweat. But none would shun any of the secondary quintrangles: tears, saliva, phlegm, yellow and black bile. It was an honor to be chosen at all.
The choosing stretched painfully long. Dart heard Oracle after Oracle pass her station with a brush of robes. Her palms stung worse and worse. No cool tile was placed there to numb the pain.
Then the beating of the greatdrum ceased on one resounding crash, and it was over.
Dart raised her face, noting the empty stoops. Margarite still knelt beside her. But beyond was an empty station.
Laurelle had been chosen.
Margarite began to sob with the realization. Both of them searched the gathered Oracles to see who had chosen her best friend. Already the servants were pulling up their masters’ cowls, preparing to leave.