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.
Dart was the first to spot Laurelle. She covered her mouth in shock and delight. Laurelle stood in the shadow of the elderly, bent form.
“It’s Chrism…” Dart whispered in awe.
Margarite sobbed harder, a bitter sound.
Noting their attention, Laurelle nodded to them and touched the corner of her eye. She was signaling the Grace to which she had been chosen.
“Tears,” Margarite half-wailed, shedding her own for her friend and for her own loss.
It was the best of the secondary quintrangles, an honor for one so young.
Dart simply kept her mouth covered. She allowed the pleasure of the moment to well through her, happy for Laurelle. She read the bright expression of relief on her face and could not help but be delighted.
“All of our sisters should have been here to witness this,” Margarite hissed, grief quickly firing to anger, needing a target.
Dart’s momentary happiness dimmed. Margarite was right. It was a success the entire floor should have shared.
The Oracles began to file out of the room with their charges. Dart noted the bronze boy leaving with the Oracle who represented Jessup of Oldenbrook, a distinguished house of the First Land. The dark boy did not seem to notice her attention, but she followed him with her eyes as he departed. No other thirdfloorers had been chosen.
With her attention focused elsewhere, Dart barely noted the slow, assisted passage of the ancient Oracle. He and his entourage crept past Dart’s station. Laurelle waved to her and Margarite, wisping a kiss in their direction, tears running down her face. But Laurelle’s eyes also spent a long time searching the tiers and benches.
Dart noted her lack of discovery. Her family was not in attendance.
But Dart had her own concerns. With the ceremony over, she had to face the ruins of her own life. How long could she stay hidden here? What of Healer Paltry, lurking in the halls?
The bent-backed Oracle stopped before Dart’s station, leaning heavily on his cane, resting a breath. Servants supported him on both sides. His head swung in her direction, blind and swathed in silk. But Dart sensed him staring at her, like a weight upon her heart.
A crooked finger rose and pointed at her.
Another servant rushed to her side and grabbed her by the shoulder.
Dart pulled away, knowing she had been found out, her inner fears heard by the blind seer. Weak from dread, she did not fight as her arm was yanked forward.
The Oracle stepped heavily toward her, stabbing his hand out at her. She stared wide-eyed, taking in every detail: the yellow nails, the parchment-thin skin, the spiderweb of veins. It was more claw than hand.
A cry built up inside her. All eyes were on her. She would be debased before the entire assembly.
Then a stone dropped into her palm. Reflexively she caught it, closing her fingers. Her arm was released.
Murmurs of shock and surprise echoed from the gallery.
“You are chosen.” The servant at her side spoke solemnly. “Rise and take your place.”
Dart could not. She simply trembled. “I can’t… mistake…” She tried to push the tile back toward the Oracle.
The ancient one ignored her and stepped away.
Laurelle took his place. “Be strong,” she whispered, returning Dart’s words to her. She offered a free hand.
Slowly, on wobbling legs, Dart stood. She slipped around the stoop and stepped to Laurelle’s side.
Margarite looked on, her face aghast and drained of all color.
“What Grace have you won?” Laurelle asked.
Dart numbly glanced to her closed fist. She opened it and stared down at the painted Littick sigil:
H
Her hand trembled, almost dropping the slate.
Laurelle steadied her with a hand. “Well?”
Dart could not speak. She showed her tile to Laurelle. The disbelief on the other girl’s face matched her own.
It was the one Grace above all others.
Blood.
5
