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Dixon stood transfixed before it. It’s over four hundred years old.
“Whose was it?”
He pointed at the placard, his eyes wide.
“Lilliard. The Lilliard?” She read the placard, shaking her head. The Maid Lilliard had been the oracle queen of Ancrum Moor hundreds of years ago. She’d slain an English commander who had come to take over her village, a man leading an army that fought without an oracle. His people had slunk home after their defeat, rudderless, their will broken.
That was before the Declaration of Peace, before the Allied Lands had joined together as one. After signing that small piece of parchment, they’d agreed to stop the infighting and fortify themselves against the Holy Roman Empire, a chunk of land that would one day become Italy and Germany. The oracles had pushed the union on behalf of the gods, and the people had believed them, for the women had rarely cooperated or given up power over their tribes.
Perhaps they’d been wrong to do it. Here it was, hundreds of years later, and they had little power left. The commonwealth fed them like pets, giving them government handouts to keep their compounds in repair.
“I guess we know which line the oracle comes from.”
“I guess you do.” Kenna padded softly into the room. Lila and Dixon both stepped away from the display cases like naughty children caught near a jar of sweets. “I believe we can trust you to keep our origin to yourselves.”
“Why keep it a secret at all?”
“History teaches us that people flock to those oracles who can trace their lines back the farthest. We know it doesn’t make a damn bit of difference. It also overburdens some of our oracles unfairly. The truth never leaves an oracle’s compound.”
“How do you keep others from talking?”
“The usual. Blood. Pain. Death.”
Lila and Dixon caught one another’s eye, not sure if Kenna was joking or not.
Lila jutted her chin toward the obsidian slab. “You have an oracle stone.”
“Yes, we do. It’s the only one for five hundred kilometers in any direction, and before you ask, that’s not why Mòr is the state representative for Saxony.” The corners of her mouth crooked upward, but it was obvious Kenna would keep that secret.
“I never realized her seizures were like that.”
“Not many do. Usually it’s much gentler than that.”
“Will she be all right?”
“Yes.”
“She touched me before she fell.”
“Sometimes when my sister touches someone, it triggers a vision. It’s why no one touches her here, why we isolate her at the temple. If she touches you, it’s her choice, and she accepts the consequences.”
“Why’d she touch me, then?”
“Because my sister is not some mystical ball of energy?” Kenna said. “She’s a woman, Lila, just like you and I. Sometimes she gets lonely. Sometimes she forgets. She’s dozing now, though. She’ll be better tomorrow after she rests.”
“I’m sorry.”
“For what? You did nothing wrong. Seizures happen, and there’s little Mòr can do to stop them. She’s not going to live her life in a bubble.” Kenna led them to the vestibule and snatched up her fur coat. “My sister is frustrated that she cannot spend the afternoon with you. She’s asked me to give you a tour of the compound in her place, and procure anything you might need for your stay and your investigation. If you give me a list, I can send it out to the right people. You too, Dixon. I don’t mind reading, you know.”
Dixon snorted and buttoned up his coat.
“He’s so damn quiet. What does it take to make him chatty?”
“Talking to him, rather than near him. It seems that Mòr feels the same way after a seizure.”
Kenna bowed slightly to Dixon. “My apologies.”
I haven’t had anything worthwhile to write down, anyway, he scribbled before slipping his notepad back into his pocket.
