On-Grid
The Wardian
“Good evening, Bentamin.”
His Aunt Asta, Oracle to Civilization, was in her library. Lately, he found her in the library more than any other room. He supposed it was better than her former place in the front alcove, where she had sat for hours, watching the street below and the bustle of the Civilization she was bound to protect, but might never join.
“Good evening, Aunt Asta,” Bentamin said, moving a stack of books from a chair onto the floor. He sat down, and surveyed her, sitting behind the massive table awash in paper books and readers, her hair every which way and her face rapt.
“Are you still planning to retire?” he asked.
“Well, of course I am,” she said. “Civilization no longer needs me.”
“Civilization would disagree,” he answered. “We depend upon our Oracles.”
“Indeed.” Aunt Asta shot him a sharp glance. “Even knowing that Long Sight is among the least reliable of Talents, Civilization depends upon its Oracles. There may once have been some value to both sides in that bargain, Bentamin, but time has worn both the need and the value away. Civilization no longer needs an Oracle. Civilization knows quite well what must be done. It is not work that I am proficient in, quite aside from the fact that I am an old woman and have earned my rest.”
And she had, Bentamin thought, earned a rest. No one could say that Asta vesterGranz had shirked her duty. She had endured for years as Civilization’s Oracle, guiding them through the arrival and death of gods, to name only her most recent triumph. Oracles, after all, did retire. But in the past that had only meant that they were no longer called upon to foretell. They were removed to a more modest apartment in the Wardian, and took up some other quiet work. Surely, they were not allowed to go wandering about the city—Long Sight was a Wild Talent, after all.
And that was perhaps a happy thought.
Bentamin leaned forward.
“How if you were to go to the Haosa for your retirement?” he asked.
His aunt considered him.
“I will certainly visit the Haosa before I go,” she said. “But it’s my intention to travel, Bentamin. I told you this.”
“You did,” he admitted. “However, I’m not at all certain that the Council will allow you to—travel, Aunt. They might be persuaded to allow you to go to kin . . . ”
“The Council has no say in what I will or will not do,” Aunt Asta declared airily, and reached for her reader.
“Always in the past, when an Oracle was ready to retire,” Bentamin said quickly, “a new one arose. I haven’t heard of an Oracle waking.”
“Nor have I—which proves my point. Civilization no longer needs an Oracle; therefore no Oracle has arisen.”
That—made altogether too much sense. Even so, he feared—
“There’s no need for you to take this to the Council, if you fear for your credibility,” Aunt Asta said gently. “I will be pleased to tell them, myself. In fact, there are a number of things I wish to say to the Council. Mind you, I haven’t quite got my destinations fixed. I could, I suppose, remove to Ribbon Dance Village while I’m sorting that bit out—what a useful idea you had there, Bentamin! Thank you. I would not have thought of it, myself, and it’s been an age since I’ve had a good, long talk with Tekelia. How does your cousin go on?”
“Pretty well. It appears that the younger trader has bestowed her affection, and truly, Aunt, Tekelia glows.”
“Tekelia has taken a lover! I must meet her! And one of the trade team? That is most excellent, because I really must call on Captain Mendoza. I am woefully behind courtesy there, and after such a breach! Perhaps I will go tomorrow.”
“Go?” Bentamin repeated. “Go—”
Someone rapped on the door to the library, which opened immediately to admit Hyuwen, Aunt Asta’s majordomo, carrying a remote.
“Your pardon, Warden, but Chief bennaFalm is calling. He pleads an urgent situation.”