Dominic and his master were exhausted, out of breath and foot-weary, but they had made good time and were keen to be inside the confines of their home. They had taken side streets to avoid the great flock of masked revelers who were booming in the central square. The narrow alleyway they were in led into the smaller square that housed the monastery’s eastern gates, but they were going against the flow of excited and drunk people. It was not easy to push through because three horses and two riders were plodding ahead of them, slowing the pace and dividing the irascible crowd. People were swearing at the riders until they noticed how heavily armed they were. With a great sense of relief, the crowd opened into the square. On its far side, Dominic, who was two heads taller than his master, could see that the gates of the monastery were open, giving entrance to a cartload of supplies.
“We made it, Master!”
“Yes, but I hope it’s not too late.”
Their view of the gate was suddenly blocked by two men on horseback and a riderless horse who stopped in the middle of the square. Benedict hobbled faster now that his task was almost complete. He was within ten paces of the riders when Dominic’s voice yelled at him from the box attached to the vacant horse. He stopped dead, and his young companion collided with him, eyes wide and hair standing on end.
“I have occurred. Save me,” it sang.
At the same moment, another voice echoed the words deep in the monastery’s interior. Screaming them into the circular stone stairwell that rose up to the abbot’s door.
“This will be our last Scry,” said a commanding voice from inside the Oracle’s crate. Its force made the crate splinter across the body of the horse that carried it.
Pearlbinder turned to see the wood warp and the chamois leather and silk peel apart, exposing its occupant’s gray, naked flesh. Then it twisted and slid down the horse’s side to flop and groan on the hard cobbles below. Bits of silk stuck to its irregular body. The spooked animal shat as it pranced sideways, leaving its naked passenger in the steaming, rich odor of digested hay.
Follett barked at Pearlbinder, who still held the reins of the startled beast, “For God’s sake, don’t let it trample the thing.”
Abbot Clementine was running down the stone spiral, a bag of gold coins clutched tight to his chest.
“Come hither, ye cunts, and read the outcome of thy days.”
“That is Scriven’s voice,” shouted Pearlbinder, his own horse now trying to make harsh backward turns against the pulling of the other animal.
The Oracle had never spoken so clearly. It was as if the stolen voices had given it a sense of the world in which they lived, had nailed it down into the awareness of the now and to whom it spoke.
Benedict was making the sign of the cross as he neared it, not caring about the panicked animals and their owners’ obvious savagery. Dominic remained bolted to where he had stopped, his hand over his mouth for fear his voice would be stolen again.
The angry riders were becoming more agitated, unhinged. There was a great shift in their understanding, as if in direct proportion to the clarity of the rantings from the shit-covered flesh beneath them.
One word stuck in Follett’s craw like a kernel of ironstone.
“Read,” it said.
The Oracle smelled the distemper the word raised in the captain’s confusion and said it again, louder.
“Read thy story, the workings of thy minds, the twisted journey, the crimes, and the demise. Read it all forever. That is my gift to thee. A picture of your cunt lives, read by all. And every word you ever spoke, for all to read.”
Follett’s lance was in his hand and spinning over his mount, the scabbard thrown aside. His mouth worked in silent rage and the color drained from his face, except for his red eyes, which were locked on the Oracle.
“No, Captain, not now, we are here, it is done,” said Pearlbinder, letting go of the reins of Tarrant’s horse and urging his mount forward to block the attack and shield the Oracle. He reached out to stop the lancer’s practiced gesture, while his other hand automatically retrieved his scimitar. The sun reflecting on its polished steel cast a glare into Follett’s charging wrath.
The Oracle pumped itself up into the conflict, a perfect target, chirping, singing like a demented mynah bird in the shrill alternating voices of Scriven and Follett.
“It will all be.
“Read read read read read read!”