Page 8 of The Half King
The blessed oracle?
Did they have her confused with someone else? It was all she could do to remain in her seat and not run headlong back to the harbor. There were so many people surrounding the carriage—maids and cooks, grooms and groundskeepers—a hundred of them, at least, all rising onto their tiptoes and craning their necks to catch a glimpse of her through the window.
Just when she thought her heart might beat out of her chest, she heard a man call, “That is enough!” and in the span of a single breath, hundreds of voices went silent. The palace workers collectively backed away from the gatehouse, giving the carriage plenty of room to pull forward…and allowing Cerise to exhale.
The carriage came to a stop, the door opened, and a guard assisted her in stepping down onto the royal lawn. She peered through the crowd to identify the man who had tamed them, and she found him right away. There was no mistaking his gilded robes or the intricate, woven symbols that displayed his status. The high priest of Shiera, arguably the most powerful man alive, was gliding in her direction, leading two rows of priests behind him.
At once, Cerise stood with respect: backbone locked, chin high, fingers laced in front of her, blocking out every other person in her periphery. But as the distance between them closed, she had to fight to keep the shock from showing on her face.
The high priest was alarmingly young, with barely a hint of gray hair threaded among the blond at his temples and in the whiskers of his neatly trimmed beard. Even in the growing darkness, she could see his eyes were bluer than a peacock feather, set in a pleasant face that radiated confidence and calm. She wondered what powers the man possessed to entitle him to such a position at his age. His gift must be incredible.
He stopped in front of her, smiling with tenderness. “Welcome, child.”
Cerise found her wits and lowered in a deep curtsy. “Your Grace.”
“The Reverend Mother was right. I sense you have a generous spirit.” He touched her cheek, indicating for her to stand. “You may call me Father Padron. I’m delighted to welcome you to the palace, Cerise.” He offered his elbow to her. “May I escort you inside?”
“It would be my honor, Your Gr—” She cut off and corrected, “Father Padron.”
She took his arm, but the oppressive heat made her wish that she hadn’t. His added warmth sent a flush to her face, a reaction that didn’t escape his notice.
“Ah, yes, you must be sweltering,” he said. “I ordered a new set of gowns from the city temple and had them delivered to your chambers.”
“That was thoughtful of you.”
The crowd parted for them, and Cerise walked past the palace workers, smiling and nodding as she went along. She felt a pull at her skirts, and she glanced aside to find an elderly maid touching her gown with one hand while signing with the other. The old woman tapped her wrinkled forehead and then drew a triangle there. Cerise didn’t understand what the sign meant, but Father Padron had seen it, too, and he stopped short, his arm tense beneath her hand.
Her stomach sank. Whatever the sign was, the priests didn’t seem overly fond of it. Father Padron excused himself and circled behind her to speak in hushed tones with one of his men. Moments later, he rejoined her, and they continued on as if nothing had happened. When Cerise glanced behind them, the old woman and the priest were gone.
“The staring is harmless, but remember your place,” Father Padron said. “You’re an emissary and a lady of the temple. You’re to be respected but not worshipped.”
Worshipped?Was that what the old woman had done with her triangle sign? Engaged in idolatry—in plain sight of the priests? No, the sign must have meant something else. Nobody in their right mind would be so reckless.
“Yes, Your Grace,” she told Father Padron. “I would never encourage idolatry.”
“I know you wouldn’t, Cerise,” he said with a reassuring pat on her hand. “I also want you to remember that you are beholden to no layman. Everyone at court will address you asmy lady, even the king. If you encounter any disrespect, I want to hear about it.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” she told him.
Once they cleared the last vestiges of the crowd, she finally got her first unobstructed view of the palace…and gasped.
Dusk had cast shadows all around, and yet a glow emanated from the palace that was radiant enough to blind the heavens. She shielded her eyes and gazed ahead in wonder. The last flickers of sunlight glittered like countless stars across the castle’s crystallized stone facade. The castle design was simple, a hexagon of walls with a tower at each point, but anything more ornate would have detracted from its beauty. Ahead of her, luscious trees laden with all manner of citrus fruit, all of them magically enhanced, lined the grass-carpeted pathway to the main doors.
Ten generations of priests had served this place well. They even seemed to have cooled the air in a protective bubble around the palace. The imprint of their magic was all around her. Though old and faded, she tasted the power on her tongue like the metallic tang before an electrical storm. She kept the observation to herself, though. She had never met an oracle in training who could taste magic, only priests, and she didn’t want to give the Order any reason to investigate her for unnatural tendencies.
“Ah, yes,” chuckled Father Padron. “The palace is a spectacular sight, especially for a newcomer.”
The sky dimmed to a purple haze, and strands of overhead globes illuminated to take its place.
“Indeed,” she agreed. “Thank you for your kindness in welcoming me here.”
“It’s nothing. I remember my first excursion outside the temple.” His lips twitched in a wistful grin. “It was a rather…trying…adjustment. Now I do my best to make the transition more comfortable for others.”
“In which temple were you raised?” she asked.
“Calatris,” he said. “Northwestern Calatris to be exact, where summertime means a thin sheet of snow beneath your boots instead of a drift knee high.”
She pictured him at her age, innocent and wide-eyed, his face smooth-shaven and perspiring in the Mortara heat. The mental image made her smile. She still couldn’t believe how young he was—or that he had honored her with a personal escort to the palace. It was a rare treat to speak with him at all. Most ladies of the temple—gentlemen, too—went their entire lives without meeting the Order’s high priest.
