So Ivar would listen to what she had to say, and if it turned out to be bullshit, then he could just laugh and leave. (Or, rather, leave first and laugh later, because there was no reason to be rude.)
“She’s ready for you,” the attendant announced.
Were the Oracle’s visions connected to the madness on Shenshido? For two years he’d lived surrounded by crazies—though he hadn’t understood the nature of their madness at the time—and he wondered if he would sense something in the Oracle’s presence that would suggest the same insanity. If Ru was right, and he was infected with it himself, would like call to like, so he would recognize others who shared his affliction? Maybe that was the question that had really brought him here. Maybe all the rest was just an excuse.
The attendant startled him by speaking. “Nothing you see in the Oracle’s chamber may be spoken of outside it.” He was a Novan with ink-black skin, and his red eyes gleamed like rubies on velvet. “Do you agree?”
Like all spaces within the core, the Oracle’s inner chamber had been carved out of native rock, but these walls had not been smoothed and polished. Natural cavities pockmarked every surface, and flickering light from faux candles sent shadows dancing along the edges of each, like demons cavorting at an entrance to Hell. Someone with a taste for mystical experiences might say the chamber felt haunted, though no ghosts were visible.
The oracle sat in the center of the dome-shaped chamber, on a throne carved from the same substance as the pitted walls, atop a daïs made of the same. Her eyes peered out from a silver filigree mask as she watched Ivar approach, her face a cypher behind it. She was much smaller than he’d expected, and despite the voluminous robe that obscured most of her body, enough was visible for Ivar to note the lack of feminine curves. That by itself meant little—there were Variations in which human sexuality was expressed differently than the Terran norm—but combined with her size, it seemed significant. Her hands were resting on the arms of her throne, her wrists so slender that it was hard to believe they belonged to an adult woman—
And then he realized what he was looking at.
The Oracle was a child.
A child.
He knew he shouldn’t stare, but it was impossible not to. The mask and shapeless clothing made it hard to judge her age, but he would guess her to be no more than twelve. How young had she been when she first began to counsel pirates and smugglers and scavengers, doing it so well that they laid untold wealth at her feet, begging for jeweled droplets of her wisdom? She’d been on Hydra for longer than twelve years, so unless she belonged to some Variation with an extended childhood, this wasn’t the original Oracle. Was that what the mask was for, to disguise a substitution? He’d never heard anyone talk about the Oracle’s role as something that could be transferred, but it seemed the most likely explanation.
It was not what he’d expected. At all.
“Your offering,” the attendant prompted.
Startled, he looked down, to see a bowl of beaten silver at her feet. It was large enough to hold several hundred coins, or a small animal with its throat cut.
A child.
Numbly he reached into his pocket to take out the offering he’d brought: a golden locket with a large Frisian ruby in its center, part of the secret stash he’d hidden away long ago. He held it up to the light so she could see the stone’s inner fire, and flickering blood-colored reflections spasmed across the walls. Then he stepped forward and laid it in the silver bowl. When metal touched metal the bowl vibrated softly, and a low-pitched chiming filled the chamber.
She waited until the sound had faded completely, then nodded. The mask made her face unreadable. “It is acceptable,” she said. A child’s voice.
Ivar heard the attendant leave the chamber, the heavy door shutting behind him, but he did not turn back to look at him. The child had him mesmerized. Was this the mystic who Spike consulted before every raid? She must have done something damned impressive to earn that kind of respect.
She rose from her seat, the daïs lending her sufficient height that she could gaze down upon him. “Scavenger. Legend. Refugee.” Her child’s voice was sing-song, mesmerizing. “Ruthless and bloodthirsty but loyal to his own. Once wealthy, now stripped of wealth. Once well connected, now seeking support. Once alive, then nearly dead, now alive again. What need brings you here? What insight do you seek?”
Her voice might be cast in the tenor of a child’s, but the mind behind it was clearly more than that. What the hell was she? “I’ve come for counsel.”
She waited.
How much did he want to tell this seer-child? He’d known enough scam artists in his time to understand the concept of cold reading. A charlatan could derive enough information from passing references to fake supernatural insight. If he gave her what she needed to do that, there was no point in his being here. “My return—” he began.
She raised a hand to stop him. “The familiar beckons to you, but it is not what it once was. All you once trusted has vanished or changed, consumed by time; only the illusion of trust remains. Those who were once as brothers to you now turn elsewhere for support. You are an outsider to them. Lost. You passed through a door once, but aren’t sure you can find it again.” The eyes in the mask reflected the flickering light in a thousand points of fire. “Have I named your fear, scavenger? Is that why you’ve come to me?”
His throat was suddenly dry. “I’m not sure who I can trust.” By the seven hells, was he really seeking advice from a child?
“You’ve never come to me before.”
He hadn’t expected to have to justify himself. “I’m not big on seeking advice from anyone.”
“You don’t believe I have the power to see your fate.”
By the seven hells, was she going to refuse his request? That possibility hadn’t even occurred to him. “I’m skeptical, yes. I won’t deny that. But people that I respect have praised your insight, and many rely on your counsel. I figured I’d give it a shot.” Would that be enough for her? Or did she only help those who acknowledged her divine nature? If what she wanted from him was adoration, she was going to be sorely disappointed.
The steady gaze from behind the mask pierced his soul—dissected it—judged it. “Very well.” Her eyes shifted focus, and he sensed she was no longer looking at him, or at this room, but at . . . something else. In any other setting he would have guessed she was accessing her brainware, maybe connecting to Hydra’s innernet, but this woman—this girl—was supposed to be a visionary. So what was she seeing now, that was invisible to him?
“There is a knife,” she murmured. “Its blade drips with blood. Your blood. I can’t see the hand that’s holding it, but the owner is close to you. Very close.” She paused for a moment; her eyes twitched from side to side. “Your allies are more dangerous than your enemies, right now. Death wears a brother’s mask. If you came here to ask if you should trust someone, that’s your answer. If you want to know if you can let your guard down . . . don’t.”