THE HALL OF PROPHECY, where I go to meet the Ogran oracle, is big and grand, like its name suggests. It’s about what I expect, since that’s what the hall in Hessa Temple is like, and I used to go visit Mom at work all the time.
The Ogran space isn’t as colorful as Hessa’s, though. The walls are paneled with dark wood. Carved and etched into the wood are elegant designs that take the shape of what I assume are Ogran plants. They look almost like they’re writhing and snapping right in front of me.
There are windows near the ceiling, untinted, that must be lit from outside, because they glow with a light that’s not natural to Ogra itself. The room itself is narrow and long, with sculptures about an armspan away from each other. Some of them are as carefully shaped as the carvings on the walls, and others are hard and grotesque, but all have a kind of menace to them. Most things on Ogra do.
The oracle herself stands in front of one of the sculptures—one of the taller ones, made of metal plates that arc toward the ceiling and twist around each other. They’re all polished on one side and raw on the other, and fastened to each other with big bolts the size of my fist. The oracle’s hands are folded in front of her. Her oracle robes are a deep, rich blue, and she’s barefoot. Stouter than Mom, and smaller. She glances at me, and offers me a smile.
“Cisi Kereseth,” she says. “My name is Vara. Come, look at this.”
I smile back, and stand next to her, looking up at the sculpture. I only do it out of politeness. I’m no good at looking at art.
“This sculpture was constructed about thirty seasons ago, when the city of Pokgo began to expand. People were angry that we were losing some of what they called ‘Ogran humility.’ The traditional Ogran belief is that our planet humbles us—reminds us that there are some things we cannot overcome.” Vara shrugs. “Some things we should not try to control.”
She gives me a pointed look. I’m not sure what to make of it. My instinct is to calm her. I try water, the most useful of my textures, but I can tell it doesn’t do much to her. What makes Ograns comfortable, I wonder? Wind, the warmth of a fire, the softness of a blanket? I sift through a few in my mind before finding one I think seems right—the feeling of cool glass under your palm.
Vara raises an eyebrow.
“I have often wondered what that felt like,” she says. “It is a heady thing, to be touched by your gift. It is all too easy to succumb to its influence.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t mean to—”
Vara rolls her eyes. “Come on, girl. You can fool people who don’t know you that well, but I, along with every other oracle in my generation, have been seeing visions of you from birth. I know that your control is far more advanced than most who can influence their own gifts. I also know that you are trying to do good, when you use it against people. So let’s talk about Isae Benesit, Cisi.”
The way she lays it all bare makes me feel jumpy, and all the words I could say to defend myself get stuck in my throat. I nod, because that’s all I can do to show her that I heard what she said.
“Do you truly care about her?” she asks. “Or are you just manipulating her to accomplish your own aims?”
“My aims—” I choke out.
“Yes, I know—you are only doing what you think is best. But the fact is, you are making decisions about the future of this galaxy unilaterally, so they are your aims, and no one else’s.”
I don’t like to think of what I’m doing with Isae as manipulation. It’s not that simple. If only Vara knew how much Isae worried me, sometimes. How easy it was for her to kill Ryzek, and order an attack on innocents in Voa. How wild her eyes are when she lets herself disappear into anger, and how settled she seems when I draw her back. She needs me.
Which gets me back to Vara’s original question—of whether I really care about her.
“I do care for her,” I say. “I love her. But I worry for her. In a fair world, she would have space to feel her grief, but we don’t really have the time to let her work out what she’s going through on her own, not with a war going on.”
Vara purses her wrinkled lips.
“Perhaps you are right,” she says. “In that case, I must tell you to be careful of the one I’ve seen in some of your futures—the mechanic’s boy. Ast.”
“He senses currentgifts, doesn’t he,” I say. “He always seems to know when I’m using mine, even if I’m being really careful.”
“It seems that way,” Vara says. “And he’s getting more and more suspicious of you. And more and more angry that Isae is not suspicious, I think.”
I nod. “Thank you for the warning.”
“Be careful, girl,” Vara says, catching my hand and squeezing it tightly. A little too tightly. Her pupils are big—most Ograns’ are, since there’s so little light everywhere—but I can see a slim green ring around them that makes up her irises.
“And don’t trust the Othyrians.” She squeezes still harder. “Don’t let her agree to it. Whatever you do.”
I’m not sure what she means, but I know she wants me to nod, so I do.