Oracle: The House War: Book Six (31 page)

Shadow hissed. There was no amusement in the sound, but no obvious anger.

“What he needs to be,” was her serene reply, “in order to free our people.” To Shadow she said, “If the child dies before he is born, it will make no difference to my fate. There is no way to change it, except this: I am trapped here, beyond Time’s reach. Beyond the reach of any save the White Lady.” She lifted an arm, and drew Adam into a loose embrace. “And a . . . mortal boy. You are cold.” An edge of question adorned the observation.

“Y-yes, Lady.”

“You are like plants, then. Like those with the smallest of voices; you perish so quickly, and at the slightest of provocation. You do not create your own warmth. Come, Adam. Here, at least, I can.”

She spoke the truth; her arm, and the length of her sleeve, enfolded him. The wind’s howl could still be heard; it could no longer be felt.

“Shadow says you are not for me.”

The cat’s hiss was louder, and it contained threat. The threat did not trouble her.

“I accept this, although I regret it. Tell me, Adam, how did you come to be here?”

“You brought me here.”

She laughed. The sound was soft and gentle; it was as warm as he now felt. “You were already here. I could hear you, and when you touched me—and you are still touching me—I could sense enough of you that we could converse. But I did not call you to my side; none of us now have that power. We can hear the voices of the wind and the dreams of the sleeping earth, although even that, we do not touch; they cannot hear us.”

“Can you hear each other?”

Silence. After a long pause, she said, “No. We are aware of each other, of course. Until recently, we could hear the White Lady. She sings,” she added gently. Adam looked up; her eyes were soft, her lashes half-closed upon their silver. “She sings songs we knew and sang in our youth. But of late, she does not sing; we cannot hear her.

“We are truly imprisoned.”

“Can she hear you?”

“I do not know. What had we to say, when we were by her side? We listened, Adam. You cannot know the miracle of her voice or her words; you have not heard them. When she sings, I forget, for a moment, all fear, all anger; I hear her voice alone. There is no song that can contain the whole of her, but when she sings, there are no other voices. Not the voices of gods, nor the wilderness that spawned them; not the voices of the firstborn, nor their many creations.

“We could listen to her song for eternity. We would sing for her—we sometimes did—but she was whole, without us; we were not whole without her. And we are without her now. Is that how you come to be here?”

He shook his head; Shadow growled. “She is not here,” he said. “And he is
not
yours.”

“I will not keep him.”

“You
have
. She is
worried
.”

“She is not my concern.”

Shadow’s growl deepened.

“Shadow,” Adam said, afraid that the great gray cat—whose fur had risen an inch—would attack the woman in whose arms he was now standing. “How long have I been . . . gone?”

“
Too
long. Come
back
.”

Adam swallowed. Nodded. To the Lady’s shoulder, he said, “Did you choose to become . . . as you now are?”

“Yes. If you mean the child.”

He shook his head. “You are—not here, but where I first touched you—made of stone.”

“Is that how you see me?”

“Yes. It’s how we all saw you, even—even Lord Celleriant.”

She frowned. Even her frown was compelling; he wanted to reach up and smooth it away.

“You didn’t feel like stone to the touch—not to me. But to the others . . . you did. You do. Your White Lady made statues of you. You don’t even stand on the ground.”

She glanced at Shadow. “Is this true?”

Not even Shadow could call this woman
stupid
. “Yesssss.”

“Can you move?” Adam asked her.

“As you can see, yes.”

“I mean—can you—” the words drifted away before he could harness them and drive them out of his mouth. There was nothing about this woman that was stone; nothing about her that was fixed and motionless. She was warm, she spoke; he could feel—and see—her breath. “You can’t hear your sisters.”

She shook her head.

“Would you speak with them, if you could?”

“It is not what the White Lady desired for us,” she said. But the answer was long in coming, and thoughtful. She placed her free hand, once again, upon the curve of her belly. “I did not tell her what I intended. This life that I bear—you have seen others like it?”

Adam nodded. It was not entirely true.

“And could you care for him, Adam of Arkosa? Could you protect him and see him, in safety, to the White Lady’s court?”

He froze. He did not want to deny this woman anything. “I do not think anyone can reach that court.”

Something in his tone made her tighten her arm. “What do you mean?”

He said, “This is the business of Matriarchs, Lady. I do not understand it myself; I am not considered wise by my kin. I am considered too young.”

She turned, then, to Shadow. The great gray cat’s low growl was accompaniment to the howl of icy wind. “Of what does he speak? If he could find
us
, why would the Court of the Queen be impassible? Has he offended her? Has she reason to forbid his presence?”

The gray cat flicked his wings before folding them and muttering imprecations against the criminally stupid.

“Eldest,
please
.”

The single second syllable struck Adam as a blow. There was nothing—literally nothing—he would not have done to ease the fear and pain in her voice. But he could not answer her question. He understood it only superficially. He turned to look at Shadow, not to glare, but to join his wordless plea to her voiced one.

Shadow understood; a volley of opinion about Adam’s usefulness and intelligence were the whole of his reply for what felt like minutes. His paws were, apparently, far more interesting than either the Lady or Adam for the next five. His subsequent sigh was almost thunderous.

“You have been
sleeping
for
too long
.” He flexed his claws as he spoke, apparently to them.

The Lady nodded. Her arm rested around Adam’s shoulders as if it were made of stone.

“While you
slept
, she
changed
the
world.
”

The arm tightened.

“While you
slept
,” he continued, finally lifting his head to meet her gaze, “
She
met
Allasakar
.”

“Shadow!” Adam didn’t even try to contain his shock.

“What? He won’t
hear
us.”

“She met him long before we slept,” the Lady said.

“Not in
battle
. She was
angry
. She meant to
destroy
him.”

“What—what happened? What had he done?”

Shadow sniffed. “He called them. They
followed
him.”

It was Adam who asked who.

“Her people.
Her
people.”

“Eldest, you must be mistaken.” Her voice had fallen to a whisper. Cold once again stung Adam’s exposed face.

“I am
never
wrong,” Shadow replied. “They called themselves
Allasiani
. They fought for
him
.”

Silence.

“She couldn’t
kill
him. Not
then
.” He glanced at Adam. “She spoke to the wilderness. She was
loud
. And
boring
. She was
so
boring that the earth answered just to make her
stop
. The earth is even
more
boring,” he added, with disgust.

“Shadow,” Adam began.

“Yesssss?”

“If the Matriarch is waiting—”

“Yes, yes, yes.” He flexed his claws again. “She
made
the
seasons
. She
bound
the world.”

“I do not understand what you mean. The seasons—”

“Becoming mortal has made you
stupid
.”

“No, Eldest. It has merely made me weaker. Weakness makes me more . . . tolerant.”

“You
chose
weakness.”

“I chose the White Lady.”

“Because she
wants
weaklings?”

“Shadow,” Adam said. “Please.”

“She made the seasons
hers
.
She
is Winter.
She
is Summer.” His gaze slid off the Lady’s. “Winter was
long
. But Summer has not come. If there is no Summer, the White Lady will
never
leave her court—and you will never
find
it.”

 • • • 

She closed her eyes. “Is this why you’ve come?” Her voice was a whisper.

Shadow did not reply.

“We have come,” Adam replied, “seeking the Oracle. We did not know you were here at all.” He swallowed and added, “We do not know
where
we are.”

She opened her eyes, then, but they were narrowed, glinting slivers that reminded Adam of blade’s edge. “The Oracle.” Although she did not raise her voice, the two words resonated with bitter anger. “You do not wish to travel the Oracle’s path.” It was almost a command.

Adam said, “Not I, but the Matriarch. Her world depends upon it.”

“Then I pity her world.” The Lady frowned. “My pardon, Adam of Arkosa.” Warmth once again seeped into him, especially his shoulders, where her arm still rested. “It has been long since I have had guests, and I forget my hospitality.” Her fingers brushed through his hair, and he winced. His hair was not clean enough for her hand. It would never be clean enough.

The woman closed her eyes and stood a moment in the howl of wind that seemed to speak for her in the silence. “I spoke in anger. The Oracle did not mislead me.”

Shadow growled. He did not speak.

“You have never cared for the firstborn,” the woman said quietly. “And they have never cared for you.” She turned, loosening her hold on Adam’s shoulders. He wanted to cling. “I saw Winter,” she whispered. Lifting a hand, she gestured, and the mountains began to sink. If Adam had witnessed it at a proper distance, he would have been awed. He was standing on them. Were he not standing in the Lady’s shadow, he would have been terrified. As it was, he was merely apprehensive.

“I saw the Winter. I heard the silence of the forest. I saw the beauty of the ice. I heard the calling of the horns.” As she spoke, Winter passed. Winter, and the mountain upon which Adam had first seen her. “It was beautiful and terrifying. I saw the hunters. I saw her people. I saw the Winter Queen.

“The Oracle did not show me the . . .
Allasiani
. Perhaps I judge the firstborn too harshly. I think knowledge of it would have broken me, then.” She whispered a word. A name. “Winter passed. Summer arrived.” She gestured again, and on the flats of stone that had once been mountainous peaks, grass grew. Grass, wildflowers, and trees. The trees were like—very like—the trees that graced the Terafin manse.

“I saw the Summer.” For the first time, she smiled. But there was pain in the smile. Loss. Adam held breath until she spoke again. “I saw it pass. I saw Winter and Summer. You like the Summer, Adam?”

He was silent.

“Each time, I saw the Queen of the Hidden Court, it hurt me. You have seen her?”

Adam shook his head.

“Then you will not understand why. Eldest?”

Shadow hissed. “She was
always
ugly.”

“You have grown bold indeed.” Her voice cooled. Adam thought—for just a moment—that had Shadow spoken like this to her at the height of her power, the great winged cat would be dead. “Not dead,” the Lady said. “But it would prove costly for him. He is bold; he is not foolish.” At Adam’s silent disagreement, she smiled again.

“I saw the last Winter. And I understood why the Oracle had approached me. She offered me truth—as the Oracle does. She offered me a choice. A chance to save what the White Lady had become. And even lessened as she was by the choices she had made, she was my world.”

“But she imprisoned you here!”

“Imprisoned?”

Adam was confused. But the Lady’s voice was warm now. “Did you—did you choose to become a—as you are now?”

“No,” she told Adam. “This is not what we chose. We would never have chosen to be separated from the White Lady. We could hear her voice—but we could not see her, could not touch her, could not comfort her or defend her.” She bowed her head; platinum fell across her shoulders like a liquid. “It is because of my choice that we are here.”

“The child.”

“Yes. She understood what my fate would be. My sisters . . . did not. Not immediately.”

“Your sisters did not make the choice you did.”

“No. It was not required.”

“And your choice was necessary?”

“Yes.”

“Then why did she imprison all of you?”

“Because she did not agree,” was the quiet reply. “But we knew she would not. We chose among ourselves; it was not a decision made lightly.”

“She imprisoned you—”

“It was not imprisonment.”

“You can’t tell me this wasn’t meant to be a punishment!”

“No, and I will not try. But had she been willing to sacrifice us completely to her rage, we could not be here, you and I. Her anger, when it takes root, is vast and almost endless—but it is not, it is
never,
all that she is.” She turned to Shadow. “Could you carry me from this place if you were willing?”

He sniffed.

Adam understood that this meant no; none of the cats were good at owning any form of incompetence. The Lady apparently understood this as well; she did not press him. His fur, however, remained ruffled.

She turned to Adam. “Can you, Adam?”

He could have pretended to misunderstand her; for the few seconds after she asked, he did. The shade of vast branches darkened his vision as he looked up to the skies. If he did not meet her eyes, it was easier to speak. “What will happen if I do?”

“Nothing will happen to you,” she said. She might have said more, but he shook his head forcefully.

“Not to me, Lady. What will happen to
you?
”

“Nothing that does not also threaten you. I will die. I will die; time will kill me, if something else does not do so first. My sisters did not understand this, not immediately.”