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The Wardian


Asta vesterGranz paused the reader and raised her head, as if an unexpected sound had reached her in the quiet depths of her bookroom. Mist momentarily obscured the shelves, then faded, leaving a rectangle of exceptionally clear air, rather like a window from which one could see . . . endless possibility.

“Oh,” she said softly, and made a mental note to ask Hyuwen how one went about acquiring cases.

The window faded; the shelving returned. Asta blinked. She glanced down at the reader, marked her place, and rose.

Best she ask Hyuwen now, before she forgot.

She had gone perhaps a dozen steps down the hall, when Hyuwen appeared from the direction of the front hall.

“Ma’am,” said her majordomo. “The Warden apologizes for arriving outside of his scheduled hour, but he bears a message from the Council that he felt ought to be delivered at once.”

The Warden, not her nephew—and on official Council business. Asta sighed. Blast the Council. Still, she had better see the Warden, who was, after all, only doing his duty.

“Please bring Warden chastaMeir to me in the alcove, Hyuwen,” she said. “Find if he would like tea, and if so, bring a tray to us.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Hyuwen vanished back down the hall.

Æ

He hadn’t stopped to change out of his robes of office. He hoped that this formality would send the message that he was there in his official capacity, as the agent of the Council of the Civilized, and that he would be greeted by the Oracle to the Civilized.

That would be the best outcome.

However, there was always the chance that the robes and the invitation both would irritate his Aunt Asta.

That was, Bentamin admitted to himself, the more likely outcome.

In either case, his visit was likely to be short, so he declined the offered tea, and followed Hyuwen to the alcove, with its large window overlooking the nighttime city streets.

Asta vesterGranz stood before those very windows, looking out at a freedom that would never be hers, whether the Council someway forced her to shoulder her duty once more, or saw her retired to another, less luxurious, apartment in the Wardian. An Oracle, after all, was a Wild Talent, and could hardly be set loose into the very heart of Civilization.

Bentamin paused on the threshold.

“Good evening, Oracle.”

The woman at the window tipped her head slightly to one side, before calmly turning to face him.

“Warden,” she said mildly. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Duty,” he told her. “The Council of the Civilized directs me to invite Civilization’s Oracle to the next meeting of the full Council, in three days.”

“Ah. May I know the Council’s topic, in order to properly prepare?”

“The Council is concerned by the lack of insights flowing to them from the Oracle. They wish to find if your Gift has run dry, or if there is another reason for this lack.”

“They want to know if I’m malingering,” she said, crisply. “Of course they do. Did you speak to them of my retirement?”

“I raised the topic. The sense of the Council is that retirement of the present Oracle must coincide with the arising of a new Oracle. Since a new Oracle has not arisen—”

“Civilization has no further need,” she said, with obvious patience.

“I did tell them that this was your stance,” Bentamin answered, his own temper flickering.

“Did you? What did they say?”

“I believe Councilor tryaBent said, ‘Ridiculous.’”

The Oracle to Civilization laughed.

“Poor things. New ideas are so difficult.”

Bentamin sighed, and cast the Warden aside.

“Aunt Asta. Will you have a Healer before the meeting? A report regarding the state of your Gift might be seen—”

“As a preemptive move from a malingering Oracle, which would force the Council to send me to their own chosen Healer,” Aunt Asta interrupted. “No, my dear, if I’m to be examined, let it be only once.”

“They will not allow you to retire, unless and until they are presented with a new Oracle. Even should that occur, they will not—Aunt Asta, you will never be set free to travel.”

She tipped her head.

“Are you certain of that, Bentamin?”

“Yes,” he said. “If it falls to the Council to decide, you may be removed to another apartment inside the Wardian, and you will no longer be called upon to exercise your Gift. That is what happens to Oracles who retire.”

“That is what has happened to Oracles who retired,” Aunt Asta said tartly. “Unless they died.”

“Aunt Asta—”

“There, Bentamin,” she said, her voice suddenly soft. She came forward and raised a hand to his cheek.

“Don’t fret, dear. I’ve been wanting to talk to them, you know.”

“Yes,” Bentamin said. “I know.”


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Framed