Boracle

by Shannon Kostyal

“Why can’t you be more like your brother?” The exasperation in the voice held a note of resigned pain. Leyla was used to the reprimands, but she still flinched as she watched two of the three juggling balls scatter in different directions. Her hand clenched tightly around the third as she dropped her gaze to the ground.

“Pelor is brilliant, funny, dexterous. Why, by the time he was your age he could put on an acrobatics show while singing an opera. He was already out there earning his keep. You can’t even juggle. He was juggling by the time he was five. Five! Why can’t you at least try to emulate him?” Her mother continued, as if after years of asking the question, Leyla would suddenly have an epiphany.

Something finally cracked and then crumbled in dusty remnants inside Leyla. Anger flushing her cheeks bright, Leyla slammed the remaining juggling ball at the ground as hard as she could. A little cloud of dust mushroomed out as it bounced twice and rolled away.

“Do you want fifty grandkids? Do you want to then be responsible for their upkeep? Because if you want a duplicate of Pelor, then that’s how you get fifty grandkids! Or are you just mad that of all dad’s scattered offspring, he mistakenly kept one that wasn’t like him?” A dark part of her felt satisfaction as her mother seemed to recoil. She pushed on, taking advantage of this rare opportunity.

“Yes, he’s a paragon of everything you and dad hold in high esteem. Pelor the Great! In another ten years, he’ll no doubt be famous through the whole kingdom. The greatest bard of this generation! Why can’t you just be happy with that, and leave me alone? I’m not Pelor. If you wanted a second Pelor, then maybe you should have visited one of the clerics or wild mages, and made some kind of blood contract to get a duplicate.”

Her mother stared at her as if she’d just sprouted an owlbear from her ass, plucked it off, and donned it as a hat. Her eyes narrowed, lips thinning out in disapproval. Leyla knew that look. It was pretty much one of the only looks her mother ever had for her. At least since she had started refusing to go on stage.

Tears threatened to blur Leyla’s vision, and she choked off a sob, spun on her heels and fled the dusty courtyard before her mother could regroup enough to unleash something worse at her.

A dry, suffocating breeze pushed against her face as she sprinted. Summers were the worst, with the twin suns beating down, and rarely any shade to be had. The village enforced a treeless parameter around the village. They’d had to, to cut down on the number of random monster attacks. Most of the village was afraid to venture past the line and into the woods. For Leyla, it was the only place she could find any peace.

Once she was past the parameter, she wove through the trees, navigating from muscle memory until she stumbled, gasping and out of breath, into a glade. Collapsing into the undergrowth, she sobbed, part despair and part aimless, directionless anger.

She hadn’t always been such a waste of space. Up until her 16th birthday, she’d been well on her way to being an admirable bard. Maybe not as incredible as Pelor - but she probably could have even found herself an adventuring party of her own one day.

It had all come to an abrupt, horrifying end the day after her 16th birthday. Eyes closing, Leyla relived that dreadful day in her mind.

~~~

A crisp chill hung in the early morning air as Leyla excitedly paced the stage. She remembered the dazzling display her brother had put on for his coming out when he turned 16. Mother and father had been so proud of him. After he’d wrapped up the show and hopped off stage, mother had bustled him over to what looked like a warrior. The man was tall and heavily muscled. She wouldn’t have called him handsome, but he had a certain appeal. Adventurer. With a pang of jealousy, she’d realized that her mother was starting to arrange interviews for her beloved son. At twelve, Leyla was far too young to dream of such things, but she’d desperately hoped when she turned sixteen, mother would do the same for her. And now, four years later, she vibrated with excitement. It was finally her turn.

“Leyla, honey!” Her mother waved at her from the side of the stage. Blinking, Leyla grinned with nervous excitement and skipped over to the older woman, sidling from behind the closed curtains. Her mother, while rounding out of her forties, was still quite beautiful and had the same spark her father had. When she walked into a crowd, all eyes followed her, mesmerized. Her brother Pelor had inherited the same trait.

“Is it time?” Leyla cast her gaze out, and watched as small groups of milling people moved from food stand to drink stand, laughing together, and occasionally looking out towards the wooden stage in the center of the village.

Laughing softly, her mother reached out and grabbed her hand, squeezing it with encouragement. “Your father is about to announce you.” She nodded to the left, and Leyla’s gaze followed, spotting her father as he laughed and joked with each small grouping, slowly gathering them to him. They trailed behind as he moved from one group to another, adding each to the entourage in turn.

Her mother gave her hand one last squeeze and then gently nudged her toward the center of the stage, where swathes of vivid orange fabric draped down from the rafters, blocking her view of everyone.

Buzzing with adrenaline, Leyla was only vaguely aware of the speech her father spun as part of debuting the village’s next bard. When the curtains parted, dragged to either side by stage hands, Leyla turned a dazzling smile to the crowd as she curtsied. Drum beats echoed from the left of the stage, joined by a flute, and she began to move. She’d practice the dance for the past six months, each undulation, each shimmy, each coy, playful glance at the audience. By the time she’d been 2 months into practice, she’d had half the stablehands in love with her. It had been a heady experience. Now she had the whole village watching.

A pause in the music signaled the next part of the performance. Gracefully, she glided toward the center of the stage, and joined her voice to the music when it picked up again. An electric spark zinged across her skin and she felt the magic flow. Holding her hands out in graceful supplication, a curved sword appeared in a shimmering haze. He arms dipped a little as the weight settled in her hands.

The crowd clapped and roared their approval, and she rode the energy high. The music picked up speed, and so did she, the sensual dance of moments before transforming into an energetic display of acrobatics and grace. Triumphant pride swelled in her heart. The display was almost to the end, when things went horribly, horribly wrong.

The crowd was oblivious. Her father and mother felt and saw nothing, but Leyla knew. She felt an awful wrenching pull, and time seemed to slow down. The sword leapt from her hands and spun chaotically into the crowd. Right before that, she had heard dark laughter behind her.

The crowd gasped for a moment, thinking it was part of the show. And then the screaming began. Shock took hold of Leyla and she could do nothing but stand on stage and watch in horror as a man collapsed to the ground. The laughter she’d heard trailed into silence, there and gone so quickly that she wasn’t even certain she’d heard it.

Her father took advantage of the shock and seized initiative, shepherding her off the stage in a rush. Shame swallowed her whole, as she realized how badly she’d botched her debut.

Thankfully, the sword had been a prop, and had only knocked the man out. If it had only been an accident, she might have recovered her composure, might have been able to regain her place as an up and coming bard.

It wasn’t until the following month that she realized her world had ended. Her carefully laid out future was gone. Anytime she went on stage, that same horrid laughter returned. That same forceful unseen power. Swords, canes, veils - anything in hand was ripped away from her. Acrobatics? She’d given up after the broken arm.

Her parents thought she’d just lost her nerve, or worse (in their eyes), she was purposely sabotaging her performances in a fit of teenage rebellion.

But she knew the truth, and couldn’t seem to tell her parents. There was a dark force following her, haunting her. It whispered at night of prophecies and atonement, and taught her a different type of magic as she began to pray to Sarenrae for guidance.

A year later, she continued to fight with her parents. Continued to be plagued by the dark force that haunted her, but only when she attempted any kind of performance. Little by little, she started spending more time at Saranrae’s temple, and found a sort of solace as she realized the Goddess had blessed her with some clerical ability. It was only in the temple that her dark tormentor quieted, and allowed her to learn.

At first she thought it was because the Goddess kept the evil outside, but by her second year, she realized that the spirit wanted her there. It was only ever when she showed signs of returning to her bardic roots that the spirit acted out.

By the third year, it started whispering again of atonement, but she didn’t know what it wanted, or meant. And that’s when it began to lash out, even at the temple.

Miserable, Leyla stopped attending temple for training. She was terrified they would discover the evil inside her. She became convinced of her own soiled state, for if she’d been good, then her tormentor wouldn’t haunt her still.

Five years from that fateful debut, her parents still forced her to practice, ensuring that the spirit was never far away. She refused to be near anyone if she could help it, and the woods had become her sanctuary of sorts.

~~~

A crackle of leaves alerted Leyla, jolting her from an uneasy sleep. Barely breathing, she dug her hands into the earth, carefully cracking her eyes open, looking for the source of the sound.

Fear pounded in her veins. Not for herself, but for whoever the hapless soul was. Her tormentor seemed to delight in terrorizing those around her.

A young man cautiously edged his way into the clearing, and paused as he caught site of Leyla. He looked strangely familiar to her, but she couldn’t seem to place him. One of the villagers, then.

She shifted to a sitting position, watching him warily. His curious expression transformed into a wide grin as recognition lit his eyes.

“Boracle!” His grin broadened, laughter lines crinkling the corners of his eyes at Leyla’s look of consternation.

“It’s me!”

She stared at him blankly, torn between confusion and a spark of anger.

“We met at the temple two years ago…? Don’t tell me you don’t recognize me, Leyla…?” His grin fell, bright green eyes clouding over a little.

She frowned, narrowing her eyes as she studied him. A few moments passed, and her confusion shifted into a genuine look of surprise. He had been one of the mid-level clerics, and every once in a while, would work one-on-one with Leyla. Until she’d quit the temple altogether.

“Corwin..?” Her voice was thready with shock.

Laughing in approval, he strode up to her and dropped into a companionable crouch, ruffling her hair in greeting.

“Goddess, it’s a relief to have found you, girl.”

Not understanding, Leyla could only stare at him, wondering if he’d accidentally stumbled into the fungus glade a few kilometers the other way before wandering to her private sanctuary.

Corwin’s mouth curved up in an appealing smile as he shook his head.

“We’ve been trying to find you since about a month after you stopped coming to us.”

Her mouth opened into a little O of surprise, and all she could manage was a croaked out, “Why?”

“Why?” His tone was filled with dismayed amusement. “You’re the oracle, of course. Gawyn will never be at rest until you complete his atonement.”

A dizziness overtook her, and she saw him mouth words, but it echoed faintly into metallic silence as disorientation consumed her.

She felt despairingly lost, and realized that something was amiss. Other than the cleric’s bizarre declaration. Darkness… she realized she was lying down, and nervously cracked open her eyes.

Corwin’s face filled her vision, worry drawing his features into a strained mask.

“Oracle…? Gawyn..?” She whispered the questions, grasping onto a tendril of hope. An actual explanation.

“You didn’t realize, did you..?” At the slight shake of her head, he sighed, shoulders slumping.

Gingerly she sat up, rubbing the back of her head as she started to replay the last ten minutes.

“What did you mean by Boracle earlier?”

“Ah… that.” He looked away, uncomfortable.

“Is it a curse?” Hands dug into the ground on either side of her, as if she could gain stability from the earth. She could handle it, whatever it was. She would at least finally know.

“Umm..” He scratched his head, shifting his shoulders awkwardly. “You see.. the high cleric at the temple. She used to refer to you as the Boracle…” When he realized that the explanation didn’t actually clarify anything for Leyla, he continued.

“Oracle… Bard-Oracle. Gawyn agitated the most when you embraced your bardic nature. You see… he was seduced by a Bard and led astray while on a quest. He never got the chance to seek atonement from Saranrae. Until now.”

Her eyes widened, shock, confusion, and anger twisting into a tangled knot in her gut.

“So… Now that I’ve finally found you, time to go. The party is waiting at the tavern, and you were the last missing piece.” He rose gracefully, brushing dirt and leaves off his trousers as he headed toward the trees.

“I.. what? Wait..!” Leyla jumped to her feet and chased after him. He paused, turning to flash a mischievous smile at her.

“That’s the spirit, m’girl! The adventurers await. Come on - I’ll introduce you.”