Alba frowned. The oracle, seemingly ageless, had recently begun rapidly aging. Alba had been trying to keep her infirmities hidden. It was she who helped the oracle rise, she who helped her dress, she who helped her eat even, bringing the cup and spoon to her lips, wiping clean her chin afterward with warm water. With the guards watching, Alba helped her walk the slope to the cavern. She took her arm and they stepped slowly together, and Alba tried to make it seem as though they were simply enjoying their stroll. But lately, even with Alba’s help, the oracle had been too weak to climb, and for several days now, Alba had made her excuses to the priests: No, the oracle would not be in the chamber today; she was unwell.

The priests had no patience for an old woman who had outlived her usefulness.

When she at last heard footsteps arrive and depart, Alba hurried to fetch the tray. Maurus sometimes hid notes on scraps of parchment or pot shards under the bowls; today a piece of broken dish said simply as you asked. Alba looked into the small bowl on the tray: well-softened barley. She smiled. She’d told Maurus the oracle had been having trouble with too-crusty loaves, and he’d made this for her instead.

“Oracle.” Alba knelt by the old woman. “The morning tray has come.” She touched her hand—all bones and fragile skin. “Oracle.”

Opening her eyes, the oracle reached for Alba’s cheek, her whole arm trembling. Alba caught the woman’s shaking hand and pressed it. “Oracle, let me help you eat.”

“Apprentice, you are kind.” The oracle struggled to rise. “You are kind to an old woman.”

Alba lifted her into a sitting position and brushed the wisps of hair from her eyes. Showing her the bowl, Alba raised a spoon to the oracle’s lips. “The priests… they grow impatient.”

The oracle nodded. “They would like me in the wilderness, yes?” Taking a bite, she chewed slowly. “I have outlived their need of me.”

Alba held a cup of water to the oracle’s lips. “I would like to help you to the cavern. I would like to quiet the priests today.”

“I fear we only prolong the inevitable. I can see what awaits me, Apprentice.”

Alba had no doubt that the oracle could see what awaited her, but she shook her head. “But not today.”

“This is true. Not today. Today I will come to the cavern, but only so I may help you. Today of all days you will need my assistance.”

Laying the spoon on the tray, Alba wiped the oracle’s chin. “Why today of all days, Oracle?”

“Today you learn what you have done.” With effort, the oracle pushed herself from her bed.

“Oracle? What have I done?”

The oracle gestured to the window. “Did you see yesterday, Apprentice? Such a sight—sparrows hounding a crow out of the sky.”

Alba knew the oracle’s vision had faded so that she, surely, had not truly seen any birds winging across the sky. But the oracle still somehow saw nature’s signs as easily as she drew breath, and Alba, after all this time, still could not read them as the oracle did. “No, Oracle. I did not see the birds. What does this mean?”