Chapter 13

The dreams did not haunt him that night.

Borner had thought to explain to Dal in the morning that her Master of Lies was not the only master of such ability. The next day though, he chose to say nothing. The changes that his little speech, “his oracle” he said to himself with great sarcasm, promoted were dramatic. The small band of armed thieves stood a little more proudly, a little less shifty than the previous days. They had been proud of their abilities since Borner had met them, but today he witnessed a new dignity written across their postures.

The most important change was the dissipation of haughtiness in the princess. She was no longer a princess, she was Dura, a dog’s bitch with an aggressive attitude for all who would challenge her “family.” Today her questions were different, concerning arms and counts of soldiers. She also endured a long list of questions concerning the layout of the palace, the king’s personal guard, patrols, and lastly, Urutu.

Raghinic: the name of Borner’s nemesis was Raghinic, second cousin of the dead king, the father Kelvanir. Raghinic was the high priest of Urutu and he was the one who transformed its priests from devout guardians of the king to self-appointed guardians of the realm. The dead king was the one who removed the Urutu from the palace, offering the great temple on the Avenue of the Gods as a bone. Borner surmised that this guardian, Raghinic, used his time out of sight of the king to plot and foment his plans to retake the palace. The only question was whether the man wanted to be the power behind the throne or take the throne for himself.

Prophets are supposed to add clarity and causation to the facts and this Raghinic of Urutu had eluded and outfoxed Borner thus far. Granted, Urutu dated back to the beginning of Nivanir-Epicus and had always had access to the royalty, but their moves thus far had been clumsy. Borner felt the sharp prick of humiliation; one moment he was an oracular prophet and the next he was a failed strategist, revealed as ignorant of current events and politics of which he supposedly handled with authority. Maybe no one noticed but he did, and the embarrassment made him cringe as they rode. The mistake was just another proof that he was a fake.

‘Prophets and their prophecies are a perilous tool,’ Borner castigated himself again and again, ‘capable of destroying what one seeks to save.’ He was committed in a manner he did not consider was possible before now. The path he must walk was already set, he could not veer to the side or walk back words and promises. The only course was to tighten his focus and to cease acting on impulse. He had learned that the less he spoke, the stronger his veracity would be. Generalities and probabilities were fine conversation with Kanner or Timmaus, but he was riding among the believers where conjecture was taken as gospel. Glancing at his fellow travelers, he had no doubt now that his minders believed in his oracular power.

There was a difference between oracular power and pastoral power that Borner had not considered. He was a master of the later and a novice of the former. Comparing the two, pastoral power was stronger because the pastor bestowed the power of healing through belief. Borner had watched priests and pastors visit the sick and lay their hands upon the stricken. He had done it himself too many times to count. They offered no miracles, but their touch often transformed anxiety into calm and stress into ease. One touch, one hand brought transformation and there was nothing magical about it. Or so he had thought.

“Never pray for a miracle” he had taught his students. “Work for a solution and give thanks afterward” was his lesson. He had been ever practical, a trait Timmaus enjoyed. Borner would shy away from the mystical, preferring reasoned discourse and administrative bureaucracy to talk of the hidden ways of the world. He was comfortable with the Mystery as a philosophical problem but uneasy with its application as a prayer or a rite. He had performed his pastoral duties while holding his tongue, keeping his doubts to himself. People responded with personal confirmations of how the Mystery gave them strength, courage, hope and success in life, overcoming troubles and solving dilemmas, all which Borner had acknowledged benignly and set aside.

Borner realized that he often dismissed the spiritual power, a personal quality of his that Kanner detested. Yet, he had risen to the top of the bureaucracy of the Arimas temples with a distinct belief shorn of the faux piety many priests believed was necessary to demonstrate loyalty. He detested thoughtless piety and shied away from pretentious displays of dogma, particularly those services that sucked hours of time at one sitting. Mystics made him uncomfortable.

Was it poetic justice that the closet skeptic became everything he had always avoided? If there were gods, how thoroughly they must laugh at his plight, at his plummet from intellectual conceit into oracular chaos, the supreme doubter transformed into the icon of belief. If there were gods, were they even paying attention?

Skeptic, zealot, agnostic and oracle: these opposing ideas could not live together in his skull and the contradictions were gnawing at his confidence. How could one deliver an oracle from a god and not believe that the god exists? There was a name for people who did such things and when caught in their hypocrisy, they usually died in some spectacularly gruesome fashion.

Maybe he was the living oracle and his cynicism continually blinded him, not allowing him to accept his new role. Perhaps he was just a pompous fool playing with other people’s lives for his own ends using their religious impulses to manipulate them. Sitting on a horse with sore thighs and with a stench that offended himself, he left open a tiny possibility that he was a man with a vision and a belief that he could save a tiny piece of the world.

As Borner watched the transformed royal as she swayed in her saddle, he concluded again that her failure or success did not really matter. Either one or both siblings would die in order to crush Urutu. If the line of Nevanir-Epicus ended with the two of them, their demise was of no great consequence to the world. He had already judged and condemned the bloodline that had lost its strength and luster. While she was not acting the spoilt princess for the moment, she was still a far distance from the savior character necessary to take a throne and hold it. If she died in battle along with Raghinic, would it be so bad? The calculus worked even if the moral scales did not.

This was all fine speculation on a sunny-day horse ride through the countryside, but the day was neither sunny nor were they riding through the countryside. They were near the city and skulking through enemy patrolled territory. They had left the King’s Road, spending considerable time picking their way on faint game trails. Even with a good disguise, they could not enter through the gates of the city, especially if Timmaus had been successful with his assassinations.

At dusk they crept into a small grove of trees. The long shadows came alive as men and women emerged and seized the reins of their horses. Bags were quickly thrown over the eyes and ears of the beasts before any could stamp or whinny. Borner dismounted and stood with his staff resting comfortably in his arms as Dura walked over to stand by him. In the dimming light, he watched her narrow eyes take in the assembled group.

They emerged from the grove and crossed a scraggly field of brambles and weeds. Their destination was an old, dilapidated flour mill whose power had come from a waterfall that fed the river further on. When Borner thought to look around, the horses had disappeared. Moments later he was climbing down rickety steps into the power room of the mill. A small taper was lit to keep everyone away from the broken, rotting gears. Field mice scampered and squeaked.

Down on all fours, they crawled through the small opening. The dirt was soft, but the half-buried rocks bruised Borner’s hands and knees. No one complained, though. They continued crawling for some time in the complete darkness. After an eternity and far too many times bumping into the butt cheeks of the person ahead while being head-butted from behind, Borner emerged from the shaft into a small cavern. Water dripped from tree roots above, creating an uncomfortable, slimy surface over everything underneath. Only oil lamps gave any hope of comfort.

Advised to walk carefully, they threaded their way around large boulders and ducked under thick tree roots in a single-file line. They reached a stretch of roof where only unseamed granite could be seen. The area was dry, allowing them to stop and rest. Borner glanced at the wall and held his breath. There was an inscription on the wall, and it was in Bodi script, the old writing from the days of the prophet-king, Nevinir. Borner called over a lamp-holder and had him raise the lamp high over the carved words.