The Oracle’s Queen
The gripping conclusion a thrilling fantasy adventure trilogy filled with necromancy and bone-chilling magic from the bestselling US author of the Nightrunner series.Long ago Skala was ruled only by Queens, in accordance with prophecy. King Erius, fearing that the prophecy might be evoked as a means to dethrone him, had most of his female relatives assassinated. When his sister fell pregnant with twins, two of Skala’s wizards were warned by the oracle and took steps to conceal the girl who survived her twin brother at birth. Now Prince Tobin has been revealed as Princess Tamir, the true heir to the throne – and Skala has never been more in need of a true Queen.But at the age of fifteen Tamir is deeply confused by the new identity that has been thrust upon her, and feels betrayed by the wizards who tricked her and all her friends. Her demonic twin still haunts her, but now that the spell concealing her identity has been broken, the bond between them is severed. Brother is no longer under Tamir’s control, and he is bent on vengeance for the sins committed against him.Meanwhile Erius’s son Korin, Tamir’s beloved cousin, has claimed the throne and declared her a traitor. But as the country slides into civil war the people begin to acclaim Tamir as their saviour. Tamir strives to avoid conflict, but Korin’s weakness and Tamir’s honour will lead them to the ultimate clash of wills.
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THE ORACLEâS QUEEN
Book Three of the TamÃr Triad
Lynn Flewelling
HarperVoyager An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
Copyright © Lynn Flewelling 2006
Lynn Flewelling asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
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Source ISBN: 9780007113125
Ebook Edition © MARCH 2016 ISBN: 9780007404599 Version: 2016-03-14
For Patricia York
August 14, 1949âMay 21, 2005
Wish you were here to see how this one ended. Thanks for always reminding me âitâs not the number of breaths we take, but the number of moments that take our breath away.â
Catch you later, my good, dear friend.
Contents
The cold night breeze shifted, blowing stinging smoke from old Teolinâs campfire into Mahtiâs eyes. The young witch blinked it away, but remained squatting motionless, his bearskin cloak pulled around him like a little hut. It was bad luck to fidget during this last crucial step of the making.
The old witch hummed happily as he heated his knife again and again, using the tip and edge to incise the rings of dark, intricate patterns that now covered most of the long wooden tube. Teolin was ancient. His wrinkled brown skin hung on his skinny frame like old cloth and his bones showed through. The witch marks on his face and body were hard to read, distorted by the ravages of time. His hair hung over his shoulders in a thin tangle of yellowed strands. Years of making had left his blunt, knobby fingers stained black, but they were as nimble as ever.
Mahtiâs last ooâlu had cracked one cold night this past midwinter, after heâd played out an elderâs gallstones. It had taken months of searching to find the right kind of bildi branch to make a new one. Bildi trees werenât scarce, but you had to find a sapling trunk or large branch that had been ant-hollowed, and the right size to give a good tone. âHigh as your chin, and four fingers broadâ; so heâd been taught and so it was.
Heâd found plenty of flawed branches in the hills around his village: knotted ones, cracked ones, others with holes eaten out through the side. The large black ants that followed the rising sap through the heartwood were industrious but undiscerning craftsmen.
Heâd finally found one, and cut his horn stave from it. But it was bad luck for a witch to make his own instrument, even if he had the skill. Each must be earned and given from the hand of another. So heâd strapped it to his back over his bearskin cloak and snowshoed for three days and nights to bring it to Teolin.
The old man was the best ooâlu maker in the eastern hills. Witch men had been coming to him for three generations and he turned away more than he accepted.
It took weeks to make an ooâlu. During this time it was Mahtiâs job to chop wood, cook food, and generally make himself useful while Teolin worked.
Teolin first stripped the bark and used live coals to burn out the last of the antsâ leavings. When the stave was fully hollowed he went out of earshot to test the tone. Satisfied, he and Mahti rested and traded spells for a week while the hollow branch hung drying in the rafters near the smoke hole of Teolinâs hut.
It dried without warping or cracking. Teolin sawed the ends square and rubbed beeswax into the wood until it gleamed. Then theyâd waited two more days for the full moon.
Tonight was the sit-still.
That afternoon Mahti had scraped away the snow in front of the hut and dragged out an old lion skin for Teolin to sit on. He laid a large fire, with more wood stacked within easy reach, and hunkered down to tend it.
