The Last Oracle

Chapter 1

Northern Egypt

“Wake up, Amara,” a familiar voice called. “Daddy’s home, and he’s giving you one last chance.”

Amara blinked to consciousness. She was surprised to hear the voice of her master. She turned her head toward the sound and was even more surprised to see him strolling through the shadows of the hypostyle hall of the Egyptian temple where her body was held prisoner. She thought she had been rid of Simeon Avare, but here he was again, her worst nightmare come true. Panic streaked through her.

“Surprised to see me?” Simeon’s silver eyes glittered in the gloom of the temple.

Surprised was an understatement. She was horrified.

Amara jerked to a sitting position, fighting the grogginess of the spell she had been under and trying to focus her bleary eyes. In the flickering light of the wall sconces, she could just make out the lines of Simeon’s figure. Eyes watering, she scanned him, looking for weapons he might use to torture her. She spotted nothing but a cloth in his left hand. Did he mean to smother her this time?

“I’ll bet you thought you’d seen the last of me, didn’t you, Amara?”

She swallowed, unable to speak because of the spell that still clung to her.

“And I bet you thought you’d gotten the best of me.” He snickered. “Sorry to disappoint.”

She glared at him, her soul smoldering with hatred. The last time she had seen Simeon, she had trapped him in her magic cards, hoping that he would never find his way out. But here he was. And she was certain he would make her pay for what she had done to him.

Her glance swept over him. When she had trapped Simeon in her cards, he had been wearing a frock coat, breeches, and a chestnut wig made of human hair taken from the head of an enemy. Now he was attired in a much shorter jacket of simple design and a pair of trousers that went all the way to his shoes. He no longer sported a wig, and his natural ash-colored hair—if shape-shifter hair could be termed natural—was worn fairly long and slicked back behind his ears.

Judging by Simeon’s mode of dress, she guessed more than a few years had gone by since her last awakening. Perhaps even centuries had elapsed.

Still, her master projected the same age as always—hovering in his early forties—and he was still as slender and tall as ever. He’d always towered over his brethren—and over her—and had used his height to intimidate all those around him.

Once he had even intimidated her. But she had been a child then. Twenty years of cruelty had annealed her fear into unmitigated loathing. She was a lioness now, pacing her cage, awaiting the day the lock would go unfastened, awaiting the moment she would leap up and rip out the throat of the master who had mistreated her.

Amara shifted to the side, poised to leap off the slab of alabaster on which she sat.

“How is it that you walk the Earth?” she gasped. She could finally speak, but her words were slurred by her supernatural sleep.

“I’ve been freed.”

She could hear gloating in his voice.

“But how?”

“What does it matter—how?” he snapped. “It only matters that I am free to move upon the Earth again. And free to settle the score between us.”

Amara’s blood ran cold.

“You really pissed me off, Amara.”

Pissed him off? She had never heard the phrase. But she could tell he was livid, even if she did not thoroughly understand his words.

“Pissed you off?” She played dumb, hoping to give her body a chance to adjust to sensation and movement.

“I’m pissed off. Really upset. With you.”

Warily, Amara watched him walk closer. She clenched her muscles, ready to spring backward into the darkness. There was no telling what punishment Simeon had in mind for her.

In the oldest of days, her punishment had been whipping. In the time they had spent in a plague-stricken land called Saxony, it had been the rack. In the 1500s, it had been dousing in a cold river. In the 1700s, he had dropped hot tar on her legs.

The secret to surviving his cruelty was in knowing the pain would end, and that she would live through it. But if Simeon meant to punish her this time, he would have to chase her down.

She was not normally free to move when awakened by Simeon. But when she had trapped him in her magical deck of cards, she had caught him in the midst of performing the Ceremony of Deepest Sleep. He had not yet bound her in the usual linen windings or covered her with the syrupy unguents and cumbersome jewelry that comprised the final steps of the ritual. The unfinished ritual allowed her more freedom of movement than ever before. And now that her body had time to fully awaken, she was ready to make her move.

Amara slipped off the alabaster slab and landed on the cool floor of the temple, keeping the stone bench between them. Her gossamer gown shimmered in folds around her sandals, and her long black hair fell over one eye. She tried to make herself small enough to hide behind the veil of hair. She tried to make herself disappear.

“Do not make the mistake again of thinking you are a match for me, Amara. You know that you are not. You are nothing but a bungler who got lucky.” Simeon stepped around the end of the bench. “When in fact, you have proved to be the single most incompetent oracle I have ever encountered.”

Amara made no response to the insult. Instead, one of the scars on the sole of her left foot throbbed in answer. She had been thirteen when he’d punished her for trying to run away. She hadn’t been able to walk for nearly a year afterward.

“I can’t recall one prediction you’ve made lately that has come true,” he added.

She stepped backward, keeping her distance. “I never claimed to be an expert.”

“I always assumed you would come into your power, given enough time. But you’re thirty now, and haven’t changed one iota.”

“Then perhaps it is time you faced the truth.” She threw back her shoulders. Her right shoulder caught and clicked, never having healed properly after being dislocated. “I cannot move the world with the cards. And now I do not even have possession of them. You are a fool to keep me.”

Simeon’s silver eyes narrowed. “I would watch my tongue, if I were you.”

“Why? Because you will punish me?” Her words rang off the temple walls, mocking them both. She licked her dry lips. She shouldn’t taunt him, but her endurance was at an end. After four thousand years of being kept behind bars, she was sick to death of being a prisoner. Seeing Simeon again made her realize she would rather die at his hand than suffer another century trapped by his magic.

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.” He crossed his arms. “In fact, I’ll even look past your recent transgression.” He leveled his gaze upon her. “If you do something for me.”

“Never.” She raised her chin. “I have done enough for you.”“Even if it might mean your freedom?”

She glanced at him in surprise. In all the centuries she had known him, he had never mentioned freeing her.

“You want your freedom, Amara.” Simeon moved closer, tapping his fingers on the crook of his left arm. “I know you do. It’s all you think of, isn’t it? I can smell it on you.”

Amara moved back again, toward the corridor behind her.

“All you have to do is one more reading.”

“I do not have my cards.”

“You don’t need the cards. In fact, I don’t believe you’re all that good with the cards.”

“If I am not, then again, I am of no use to you.”

“Ah, but there are times you can be quite sensitive, Amara, able to read people and the world around you. I’ve seen it. Tap into that sensitivity now, and you shall be rewarded.”

He smiled, but the expression remained lodged at the sides of his mouth and didn’t reach the corners of his eyes. He looked every inch the reptile she knew him to be.

“You do one last thing for me, Amara, and I will grant you your freedom.”

She stared at his mouth, sure that this was just another one of his tricks.

“Are we in agreement, Amara?”

She swallowed. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. Something was not right about all of this. Her unease deepened. But to gain her freedom, she would do almost anything.

“All right,” she murmured.

“Good.” He smiled again and raised his hand. With a flourish, he displayed the square of fabric, less than two feet across.

Amara regarded the cloth, wondering what significance it had to Simeon.

He dangled it in the air between them. “Tell me all you know of this object.”

“I know nothing of it. I have never seen such a cloth.”

“Touch it.” He held it closer. It appeared to be a scarf of some kind, with a shining ribbon border stitched around the edges. “Tell me what you sense. If you tell me what I need to know, you will have your freedom.”

She glanced at him, still wary of his words, and made sure she did not look directly into his hypnotic silver eyes.

“If you tell me something useful, I will set you free. Today.”

Amara’s heart leapt into her throat. But just as quickly, she doused her hopes. Nothing Simeon said was to be believed. Not until she was really free, not until she could feel sunlight on her skin and know that she was hundreds of miles away from his accursed Egyptian temple, would she trust such a promise.

She glanced at the cloth. In the dim light of the lamps, it appeared to be a pale blue. It looked harmless. She reached for it. The fabric was fashioned of feather-light yarn. She took it into her hands. Warmth flooded up her arms. She drew the fabric to her face. The cloth was so soft and fragrant, she couldn’t help but sink her nose into the folds. She breathed in, and when she did, a shaft of longing soared straight to her womb.

This blanket belonged to a child. To a baby. To a baby boy and a life with a child that she would never know. Amara’s entire being ached with maternal love that would never have an outlet.

Tears welled in Amara’s eyes as her starved emotional state threatened to overwhelm her. She crushed the blanket closer to hide her reaction from Simeon and turned away.

“Where is he?” Simeon asked.

The words “Lake Tahoe” appeared in her mind, more a sound than an image. She had never heard of such a place. But as soon as the name came to her, she snapped off the sensation, worried that Simeon would pick up on it. He had an uncanny knack for reading people’s thoughts.

“You feel something, don’t you?” Simeon’s voice sounded far too intimate.

Amara realized she had let her emotional lapse allow Simeon to get close enough to touch her. She lunged away, but he grabbed her hair and yanked her backward.

“Oh, no you don’t,” he snarled.

“Let me go!”

She pivoted and tried to pull out of his grasp. But with a quick turn of his wrist, Simeon transformed her hair into a rope that bound her to him. She was his prisoner yet again.

“I need to know where the boy is.” Simeon leaned over to reach for the blanket. “Just tell me where he is, and you are a free woman.”

Simeon snatched the blanket away. The fabric swept across her palm, taking all hope with it. She had been a fool to think she could escape Simeon. Freedom was not to be hers. She knew now that nothing but more pain and loneliness loomed in her future.

“Where is he?” Simeon repeated, giving her hair another turn and dragging her toward him.

“If you think I will tell you,” she retorted. “Then you do not know me.”

“You could be free!”

“And damn another child to the life I have led?” She shook her head. “I will not.”

“One last time, Amara. Where is the boy? Tell me and you can walk out of here. In one moment, you could be free.”

Full of despair, Amara crossed her arms over her chest, closed her eyes, and began to chant to the Great Mother for strength.

“The Great Mother isn’t going to help you,” Simeon hissed in her ear. “She never has and she never will.”

Amara ignored him. She was already plunging deep into a trance where all was beautiful turquoise water, and pain would soon be just a throbbing line on the horizon—far, far away.

© Patricia Simpson