The Oracle of Maracoor by Gregory Maguire

Author:Gregory Maguire
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2022-10-11T00:00:00+00:00

3

The first day had been the easiest. The second was plodding, the third tedious, and the fourth rainy. Every day that they weren’t set upon and killed blurred with the days before. They lost count of the number. As they ventured west, though, the frequency of villages and crossroad hamlets dropped, and the distance between farmsteads lengthened.

Lucikles had chosen the wrong shoes. Burden’s capacious belly was itself a burden and slowed them down. Cossy was bored. Rain had run through any story she could think of to tell, and the ones she couldn’t remember were driving her mad.

It was a relief one blustery dawn to crest a knoll halfway across a vast open meadow and to spy the start of the western downslope of High Chora. The drop looked even steeper than the approach from the coastal plain had been. A vast and indolent river, pewter in the morning sun, spread a swathe through iridescent grasslands. On the other side, forested hills lazed about.

They paused for lunch in the sunshine, about as relaxed as they’d been since their departure. The apples they’d lifted from an abandoned farmstand made a sort of one-note meal, but it was better than nothing. A sleepiness came upon the adults. They found a wooded dale and the adults settled into its shadows to take some rest. Cossy, bored, wandered away, probably to find toads to fling at the Goose. A nearby stream burbled. The girl came back without any wildflowers or toads. “We’re surrounded,” she hissed. They snapped to at once.

Cossy jerked her head. Across the stream, three men in lightweight armor and strange, coarse leggings moved slowly. Heads down, examining the far bank, as if for footprints. They hadn’t yet spotted the travelers. Their mounts were tethered to the remains of an oak split by lightning.

Then Cossy pointed in the other direction. Farther away, four or five more men, equipped with spears, were thrashing in the bracken-wood above them, poking through underbrush.

The blue-black noon shade in which the travelers had spread out was, for the moment, dark enough camouflage. They didn’t speak for fear that sounds would betray their whereabouts. They hardly dared move. But there was no escape route.

A finger to his lips—hush—Burden leaned toward Lucikles, who inclined his head forward. Burden settled the regal pendant over his shoulders. Ah, his last job as a Minor Adjutant. Lucikles tucked the scarab into his collar. If he was going to be mistaken as the Bvasil of Maracoor and assassinated, the Skedes would have to identify him first. He wouldn’t badge himself for their convenience. With this investiture Lucikles would die as king of the nation. But Oena and Leorix and the girls would never know. An untold story is a secret.

The streamside group was moving away, but the spear-holders drew nearer. The operatives spoke a rough language, guttural and choking. They seemed ill-tempered, if one could guess by tone, but they were taking their time at their task and being thorough. It would be hand-to-hand combat momentarily.

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