Oracle: The House War: Book Six (33 page)

“Adam,” she said, and her voice was a shock of sound, it was almost a sensation. “Adam of Arkosa.”

He did not reply. Her eyes narrowed. This was not a woman who was accustomed to being ignored. The cats above her head continued their three-part roar; the air shook with the force of their voices.

Silver eyes narrowed as the woman lifted her chin, turned her gaze upward, to the source of the noise.

“You are the Matriarch?” she asked Jewel, without looking down.

“It is what Adam calls me,” was Jewel’s evasive and unintentionally hushed reply.

“And these cats are yours?”

She coughed, which did attract the woman’s attention. “They’re cats. I’m not sure they can belong to anyone but themselves. But—yes, they’re traveling with me.”

“Do they obey you?”

“They’re
cats
,” she repeated.

“They obey her,” Avandar said. He offered the lady—the naked lady—a perfect bow. In style it was Southern.

She frowned. Jewel half-expected her to call him by name, and was surprised when she did not. The lady glanced at Kallandras, who also bowed; if she could see Angel and Terrick, she made no sign; her eyes came to rest, at last, upon Lord Celleriant, armed—as Jewel knew he must be—with the sword and the shield of his people.

Her smile was brighter, sharper. It was not predatory, but it was not entirely welcoming. “Brother,” she said.

He failed to bow. He failed to speak. He watched her for a long, long moment, his lips a thin line, his eyes likewise narrow.

Jewel exhaled. She started to speak, but Adam lifted his head; the lady’s hand gently brushed his forehead. “I am in your debt,” she told the kneeling boy. She lowered the other arm, and by some miracle of magic the arch above her did not come crashing down; it did not even teeter.

She then offered those perfect hands to Adam; he took them with obvious hesitation and she lifted him, with ease, to his feet. He was pale; dark semicircles sat beneath his eyes, and his lips were cracked. “The child?” she asked, in an imperious voice.

“He is well,” Adam replied.

“Snow,” Jewel shouted. The white cat’s roar banked; she could hear sibilance take its place as he meandered his way toward her.

“Yessssss?”

“Adam is exhausted. I do not want him to fall here.”

“Where
can
he fall?” the cat asked, with great interest.

Jewel placed a hand between his ears; the cat muttered. He glanced at the pregnant woman, huffed, and muttered some more. Most of it had to do with
stupid
, which meant, of course, Jewel. “You are never allowed to drop him,” she said, “unless he specifically requests it.”

Snow sidled up to Adam without quite meeting his gaze. This was made simpler by the fact that Adam had difficulty taking his eyes off the woman. The air carried her; Jewel wasn’t certain whether she spoke to it herself, or Kallandras did.

She was almost the same height as Celleriant; her skin, her hair, and her eyes suggested immediate kinship. But she did not look particularly pleased by his presence. Since her look mirrored his almost exactly—absent armor and weapons—Jewel supposed this made sense. She didn’t understand the Arianni. The lack of understanding made her feel human.

“I am Jewel,” she told the stranger. “This is Snow; his brothers noisemaking above us are Night and Shadow, respectively. They carry two men, Angel and Terrick. You’ve obviously met Adam; the man who addressed you is Avandar, my domicis.” The woman frowned. “My oathguard.” The frown on her face cleared. The frown on Avandar’s deepened. Jewel ignored both. “The man with the golden curls is Kallandras; he is a bard. Music is his strength and his gift.

“And behind me, you see Lord Celleriant. He is my liege; I am his lord.”

She spoke to Celleriant in a language that Jewel did not understand. As she struggled to retain some of the syllables, she frowned. She had understood every word the stranger had spoken so far, and the stranger had clearly understood her.

Celleriant replied in kind. He did not set aside either his sword or his shield; this did not seem to give offense. As the woman spoke, she lifted Adam with ease and deposited him both firmly and gently on the white cat’s back. She did so without apparently looking at him; her gaze was fixed upon Celleriant. Adam listed.

“What do you intend for the others?” Avandar asked the healer.

Adam shook his head. “They are not to be touched. The Lady feels that were I to somehow free them, I would pay with my life. She does not feel that my touch will mean to them what it meant to her; they will be as adamant—and as dangerous in their rage should I try—as Shadow.

“And the Matriarch does not command that I heal the sisters of the White Lady.”

Celleriant’s voice rose in outrage or horror; Jewel turned from Adam for just a moment to see the Arianni lord’s expression. His skin was the color of his hair; his arm had fallen, and with it, the sword. He turned to Jewel as his shield and sword guttered and vanished.

“Do you know what you have
done?
” he demanded.

The practical truth was that she had done very little. She said, instead, “I have allowed a healer the use of the talent to which he was born.”

“Do you understand who she is?”

“No. But you understand it and perhaps you will share.”

Be wary, Jewel
, the Winter King said. He had come out of thin air, as he so often did, to stand by her side, his tines raised. This woman was not the Winter Queen, but clearly, kin to her; he was drawn to her—just as Jewel was drawn.

“You are to travel,” the woman said softly, “to the White Lady’s court. If it pleases you, I will travel with you.”

“And if it does not?”

“I will travel, regardless. I will not travel quickly, and perhaps not well; I am told I have a handful of decades in which to arrive, and speed is therefore of the essence.”

She looked to Celleriant; he was rigid.

“I do not intend to travel to the—to the White Lady’s court directly. I have come to find the Oracle’s domain—and I don’t have any clear idea of where it is.”

“No, you would not. No one does, who has never walked the path to reach her. It is not simple to find; it is not simple to walk. Should she choose to remain hidden, she will never be found at all.”

Jewel said nothing.

“But, Matriarch,” she continued, frowning slightly as Jewel flinched, “I
have
traveled that path. Let us then come to an agreement. I will lead you to the Oracle if you agree, in turn, to allow me to travel with you to the White Lady’s court.”

“There is some chance,” Jewel said, her voice too thin and too dry, “that I will not survive the Oracle’s test.”

The woman frowned. “You think she means to kill you?”

Shadow snorted; the woman ignored him.

“Not directly, no. I am not the first woman to walk the Oracle’s path. But many who did so did not survive it.”

“They died?”

“No.”

Silence. Shadow hissed. The woman, again, ignored him. The great gray cat flexed his claws, and Jewel fixed him with a glare. It was wordless, but not even Shadow could pretend to misunderstand her meaning.

“Many have walked the Oracle’s path,” the Lady said quietly. “I have not yet heard that the Oracle destroyed those she chose, in the end, to grant audience. I am told the world has changed—has it changed so much?”

Celleriant’s laugh was bright and hard. “If you are as you claim, it has changed almost beyond your reckoning.” After a harsh pause, he spoke again in a language that was opaque to Jewel. There was less shock, less outrage, in his tone, and he did not draw sword.

Jewel thought the danger—whatever that danger might be—had passed, for now.
Do you understand her words?
she asked the Winter King.

His silence was almost reverent, which was answer enough. The wind tugged Jewel’s hair, and she pushed it out of her eyes, even though those eyes remained closed for another long beat.

When she opened them, she lowered her hands—to her hips. Her pursed lips would have been a signal to her den—but only Angel was here, and Shadow had never come close enough that he could see them clearly.

It was time to leave. It was probably, she thought, past time.

And where exactly will you go?

Clearing her throat, she said, “I don’t intend to die. Everything I care about depends on my survival and my sanity. If you will lead us to the Oracle’s domain, we will escort you to the Queen’s court.” Although the two Arianni voices had not fallen silent, the Lady turned. “I do not think I can even find the court until I have undertaken—and passed—the Oracle’s test.”

Silver eyes rounded; platinum hair flew in the swirls of agitated wind. She turned to Celleriant, her voice raised.

He replied in Weston. “None can return to the court if they but leave it; the ways are closed; they are hidden to all.” He then turned to Jewel. “On occasion, my lord sees things that are hidden. If she is to see what is hidden, she must subject herself to the judgment of the Oracle. It is for that reason that we have come. Whether you accept my lord’s offer or not, it is to the Oracle that we must first travel.”

“I do not have the time,” she said, and for the first time there was an edge of fear or anxiety in that perfect, clear voice. “Did you not understand the truth of which I spoke? I will age and die. Your Adam has explained what mortality means, and I am mortal, now. I do not have the decades to undergo the Oracle’s many tests—not again.”

Jewel shook her head. “You don’t have decades.
I
don’t have
months
. Did Adam explain the difference between the two?”

She nodded. Adam, on Snow’s back, looked foggy and confused. “I didn’t—”

“The communication, Adam of Arkosa, is a bridge. You traveled to me, at my request; I, too, could reach across what you built. I understand your language—your two languages. I understand how you mark . . . time.” She spoke the word as if testing it. “I understand what a healer is, and what you believe your Matriarchs capable of.” She turned to Celleriant, who was now utterly silent. “I understand the gray simplicity of their tiny, brief lives—and the lack of beauty, the lack of wonder, that informs them.”

“You are mortal?”

“Yes.”

“You
cannot
be! Do you understand what you have done to yourself? You will be little better than—”

“
Thank you
, Celleriant,” Jewel cut in. “You may, if it pleases you, discuss the taint and inferiority of mortality on your own time.”

N
OW, JEWEL THOUGHT,
standing in midair, the ground so distant beneath her feet it made her dizzy just to look, all that was left was logistics. She knew how much food they had; adding another person cut the number of days they could travel in safety without resorting to foraging. Given the wilderness, she had anticipated the end of safe food with dread.

But if it was true that this stranger knew the way to the Oracle, it might cut the travel time significantly—and regardless, Jewel knew she could not leave her here.

It might be wisest,
Avandar said, but without much hope.

Yes. But wisdom didn’t bring us here. Hope did.
And fear. She failed to mention the fear. She did not understand what had happened; she would ask Adam in detail later.

“Snow, she’s naked.”

The cat hissed. “So
what?
We are
all
naked.”

“I’m not.”

“
Us
. The
important
people.”

“Fine. Naked cat is far more attractive than naked woman.”

“And water is
wet
,” the cat growled. “Fine.
Fine.
Carry Adam. Don’t let him
fall.
Don’t
make noise
. Don’t
sharpen claws
. Don’t
have any fun.
And now,
make dresses?
” His love of extended sibilants made the sentence much longer than it would have been had anyone else spoken it.

She sighed. “If you feel you’re incapable of making a dress in these difficult circumstances, I understand.” She turned to Avandar. “I think we can come up with something that might at least keep her warm.”

Snow hissed. High above their heads, Night hissed as well, which didn’t improve the white cat’s mood.

The woman, however, stopped, arrested; her eyes opened—in wonder, not fear. Even Snow could not be immune to the shift in her expression—or the fact he had caused it. He preened. Jewel didn’t even begrudge it; in his position, she would have done the same. No one had ever looked at her the way the woman now looked at Snow.

Snow sniffed and stuck his nose in the air, exposing the underside of his chin—something he very seldom did if his brothers were within swatting range. “What will
you
make?” he demanded of Jewel.

“Make? Nothing. We all brought clothing; she can wear some of ours.”

The cat sputtered with his usual exaggerated outrage. Jewel was, in his opinion, the
stupidest
person it had been his misfortune to meet. Ever.
Stupid, stupid, stupid
.

White brows rose as Snow continued his rant. “You allow this?” The Lady asked Jewel.

Jewel shrugged. “They’re cats. I’ve been called worse. Even by myself. You were aware that he makes dresses?”

“I was aware that, should the mood strike him, he
creates
, yes. I have seen only one or two of his creations, and one, sadly, was destroyed. Had any but the cat himself destroyed it, they would have perished for the crime. What price do you pay?”

“Pardon?”

“You have asked him to create; he has not yet agreed. What price will he demand in return for his gift?”

Jewel blinked. Snow sidled up to her, butting her hand with his head until she began to scratch behind his ears. “What will
you
give
me?
”

She looked at him, forehead bunching in lines as her brows rose. “Me? Nothing. I’m willing to find her something else to wear.”

“Then why did you
ask?
”

“Because she’s the only person I’ve ever met who I think would be worthy of what you can create.”

Snow hissed.

“Not worthy of
you
,” Jewel added; she privately thought no one deserved to be saddled with these cats on a continual basis. “Worthy of the
dress
. I would give her the one you made for me—”

Hiss.

“—But I treasure it. I value it. I would not be parted from it.” This was mostly untrue. On the other hand, Snow was not generally suspicious of flattery; he expected all flattery was simple fact, where it involved him. “But I think most people would agree that it would suit her far more than it suits me. Perhaps she doesn’t deserve it. But then again, neither did I.”

“You are
Sen
.
She
is
hers.
”

“I will not command it.”

“You
can’t!
” Snow replied, in obvious outrage. Night hissed laughter; he had circled low enough he could stand on the height of the precariously supported pillar. The white cat glared at the black one.

Jewel kept her hand on Snow’s head because he was warm, and when she touched him, she felt some of that warmth. The Lady didn’t seem to note the chill in the air, given how poorly she was dressed for it.

She had told Celleriant she was mortal. Jewel couldn’t quite force herself to believe it, although she was certain the woman spoke the truth as she understood it. The wind seemed at play in her hair; it was not a gale. She looked very like Meralonne before he joined battle: wild, pure, and inhuman.

“
You
just want to see
her
.”

Jewel reddened. “Yes,” she said quietly, “I do. I want to see her in a dress of your making.”

Snow hissed and muttered. Jewel simply waited.

The woman watched the cat; her brows took the shape of a frown, but on her, it was an elevated expression.

Snow pushed himself off the ground, shaking off Jewel’s hand as he rose. His wings were spread, but he didn’t flap them; they seemed to be caught instantly in winds that touched nothing else.

If he had complained about lack of material or tools, Jewel would have let it go; she had always suspected that Snow required neither to do his work. Haval had implied as much, and Haval noted everything. But she hadn’t watched Snow work—and he had chosen to do the work now.

The Lady’s expression changed as she watched him. He might have been the only other living thing in the area; even Celleriant was forgotten. From out of the folds of the air that carried them all so far above the ground, threads emerged. They were—or looked—white; white and gold. But as they continued to coalesce, they were joined by strands of black, of gray, of something the color of ash; of red, and the purple that red could become.

For a moment it seemed like a chaotic storm of colorful tendrils; it looked deadly, dangerous, wild. But the cat circled it, muttering—the word
stupid
had prominent position in every otherwise inaudible sentence—his movement somehow containing it.

She could almost understand why Haval treated Snow with so much respect. Gray threads and black, red threads and white, began to merge; the individual strands seemed to struggle to break free of the growing, whole cloth—but with little success. It awed Jewel. At the same time, it made her vaguely queasy.

As if in response to that, Shadow finally condescended to land. He almost knocked Jewel off her feet—and would have, if her left foot hadn’t been part of what he was landing
on
. Angel took his life in his hands; he smacked the gray cat on the head.

Shadow hissed and said, “I will
drop
you.”

Night hissed laughter. Night was doing a lot of laughing; Jewel was fairly certain he’d pay for it later. And it had better, her glare at the gray cat implied, be
much
later. She wasn’t worried for Angel’s safety. When the cats were whining and uttering dire verbal threats, they were harmless—unless you were furniture.

She did, on the other hand, place a hand on Shadow’s head. “Who is she, Shadow?” she asked softly. The woman was so absorbed by Snow at work she didn’t seem to hear. “Is she Ariane’s sister?”

Shadow hissed softly. “You should not have come
here
,” he told her. “She will be angry.
Everyone
will be angry.”

“She seems to know you.”

He nodded. “She went away,” was his soft reply. “We didn’t know where she went; the wind wouldn’t
tell us
.” He swiped, claws extended, at the air as he spoke. “
No one
would tell us. We tried to make
her
tell us.”

“Her? You mean the
Winter Queen?
”

Shadow rolled his eyes. “She will be
angry.”

“Yes, you’ve already said that. What should I have done instead?”

“She was
safe
here. The Winter Queen protects what is
hers
.”

“The child,” Jewel replied, “isn’t hers.”

“
Exactly
. I told you not to
trust
the Oracle.”

Jewel nodded. “I’ll remember that none of this is your fault.” She fell silent as the threads at last became whole cloth; the cloth caught the gray, ambient light, and returned it, shifting as she watched. It folded in on itself, moving at wind that touched nothing; Snow’s claws caught its lower edge and held it in place. Red seeped from his claws to the fabric; it was the red that she had seen as moving threads.

The white cat had fallen silent. He exposed his fangs as his ears rose to points; his body gained inches as his fur rose as well. He looked very much as if he were engaged in battle—until Shadow reached out and stepped on his tail.

“Shadow.”

Shadow hissed. “We want a
dress
,” he told his brother, ignoring Jewel entirely. “
Not
armor. Make armor for the
other ones
.”

“This is
better
than armor!”

“It is
ugly
,” Night said, descending as well.

“Ugly?
Ugly?
You
are
ugly!
”

Jewel exhaled and glared at the three cats. If they’d been in the great room—or any of the guest rooms, including the one that was technically theirs—she’d be looking at furniture replacement and possible bloodstains.

She looked up at the woman and saw, to her surprise, that she was smiling. Before she could look away, the woman lowered her face, and met Jewel’s gaze. “They have not changed, have they?” she asked, with genuine fondness. “I was not certain what to make of you; they have wings, now, and they did not require them before. And they seem smaller of stature.”

“You should have seen them a month ago,” Jewel replied. “They were two thirds the size they are now. Still trouble, though.”

“You do not seek to confine them, then? But no, I can see you do not.”

“They’re cats. They more or less do what they want; they
mostly
avoid doing what I
don’t
want.” As she said this, she glared at Night, who hissed.

“But it
is
ugly.”

“So?” Snow snarled. “
She
is
ugly.
It is not
as
ugly!”

Since the stunningly beautiful stranger seemed to find this amusing, Jewel didn’t rush to her defense; it would have been embarrassing. She did clamp down more firmly on Shadow’s head; Night was smart enough to remain out of reach.

“Kallandras?”

“Terafin.”

“Is it safe to stand on the ground?”

“I believe that would be wise at this point. Your cats appear to be restless, bored, or both, and I am not certain the wind will not take offense soon.”

 • • • 

By the time they made their descent, the dress was firmly between Snow’s jaws. Jewel cringed, imagining cat saliva all over the folds of cloth. She didn’t, however, say anything; cat saliva was probably better than no clothing at all, and in truth, Jewel thought any of her clothing that might fit the much taller, much more statuesque woman would only be an embarrassment—to Jewel.

Embarrassment didn’t seem to be a concept that the stranger understood. Her nudity didn’t bother her; nor did the cold. She seemed to regret the absence of the wind; Jewel mostly appreciated it, although she did offer thanks to it before it stilled. Terrick was embarrassed for her, and kept his gaze fixed on the ground, on the cats, on Angel—on anything, in short, that wasn’t her. His cheeks were flushed, and Jewel kindly decided it was due to the chill.

Avandar was amused.
You are staring
, he told her.

Jewel reddened, because she was. But it was the stare she might have given a grand and distant mountain: like those mountains, this woman was a thing beyond desire. She invoked an awe that desire couldn’t touch. Jewel had no words to describe her; even beautiful seemed too common, too inadequate.

Don’t you see it?
she all but demanded.

Yes, Terafin, I do. But it is merely beauty. If you cannot gather your thoughts and the tatters of your dignity when faced with this stranger, how do you intend to speak with Ariane herself?

Jewel shied away from even the thought; she occupied her hands by removing the dress from Snow’s jaws and offering it to the stranger. “I’m not called Matriarch,” she said, eyes drawn to skin that seemed warm and luminous.

“You are not?” She glanced at Adam, who was now asleep; Angel supported the bulk of his weight.

“Adam calls me that, yes.”

“It is a title that conveys respect.”

“For Adam, yes. It is not a title we use among my people.”

“And what title do you prefer, seeker of the Oracle?”

“Jewel.”

The woman frowned; even her frown could stop breath. “It is a . . . stone?”

“Yes, of a type. It’s a name. It’s the name I was given by my parents.”

“It is not a name; it is a word.”

“Yes. But if you shout it where I can hear it, I’ll know you want my attention, as opposed to anyone else’s.”

“Jewel.” She spoke the word as if testing it. She spoke it as if it were a song.

“Yes.” Jewel inhaled, exhaled, and turned to the practical, as she so often did. “Lord Celleriant is called Lord Celleriant. If that isn’t his name, it’s used that way among my kin. What might we call you?”

Her frown shifted. “If the name signifies nothing,” she finally replied, “You might choose a word. You have come to me, where none but the White Lady have ventured; I will therefore take no offense at whatever word you choose.”

Jewel froze. She wanted, for one absurd moment, to shake Adam awake and make him choose. The Lady didn’t seem to sense her discomfort—either that, or she didn’t care. She donned the clothing Snow had made, and the rough collection of syllables that comprised a name fled before Jewel could grasp one.