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Her cheeks flush. She feels it too.
“Stay cool, Malix,” she mutters. “We’re fine.”
She must not realize it is quite impossible to stay cool around her.
We cut through the crowd, following Jokahn’s horns around the conversation pits. Finally, the masses part and I see Ravik sitting alone in one of the pits, his brow furrowed. He stands as we draw closer, and Taraven leaps into the pit with him to take him by the arm.
“You’re safe,” he says. “Good; I was worried.”
“As was I,” Ravik says, glancing over Taraven’s shoulder at Jokahn. “You took us by surprise.”
“What can I say?” Jokahn says. “I like surprises.”
Frankie scowls, but she corrects her expression as soon as the Liatran turns around. “So,” she says. “Are you ready to talk now, or…?”
“After,” Jokahn says.
“After?”
“Our guests from Traika are bringing their new find out for a performance.”
“They have entertainers from the Order of Divine Symmetry?” Taraven snorts. “I’ve never heard of something so preposterous.”
“She’s not an entertainer,” Jokahn scoffs. “She’s anoracle.”
I search the faces of my comrades for any sign of what that might mean, and I find my answer in Taraven’s wide eyes and Ravik’s open mouth. Frankie looks just as confused—if a little more skeptical.
“Are you serious?” Frankie asks.
“Extremely,” Jokahn says. “She’s the first in nearly three hundred years—and human, no less.”
“And she’s legitimate?” Taraven asks. “I thought they were a myth.”
“We weren’t sure until recently,” Jokahn says. “But that’s the most fascinating part—she predicted the destruction of that Lyran moon.”
My heart drops into my stomach at the way he says it—and at the prospect that someone predicted it without telling us. How many lives could she have saved?
I open my mouth to ask, but Frankie’s hand is on my arm, squeezing softly.
“Stay on mission and we can figure out thissai-kik-shitlater,” she mutters.
I close my eyes for a moment, reminding myself to breathe.
“You’re right,” I say. “I need to calm down.”
“Let’s take a seat and we can work on that,” she says.
She pulls me into the pit and sits me down between herself and Taraven, who sits close enough that his shoulder presses against mine. I’m not certain if it’s intentional, but my flesh burns where he touches me, just as much as Frankie’s hand on mine. I let myself fall into their touch—Taraven on my left, Frankie on my right.
When I finally get my bearings again, the crowd’s noise is tapering off. Something is happening at the front of the room, four cloaked figures guiding in a thin figure in the same white robe as the rest. It must be a human, based on their stature. They have a weak step, and when they look out at the crowd, I see a dark-skinned female face beneath the hood.
Her eyes are bright though—shining like opals, almost like a Lyran.
I’ve never seen a human with eyes like that.
“She’s blind,” Frankie whispers.
“Oracles often are,” Taraven says. “Or—at least, so I’m told. Not that I have any personal experience.”
