Oracle: The House War: Book Six (35 page)

But she understood, as her arms tightened around Adam, that the roots of the present, and the roots of the future they would soon face, were planted in all ways in that dim and unknown past—the two could not be separated.

“Do not
trust
her,” Shadow said, loudly enough that his words probably carried to the unseen ceiling.

Shianne glanced at the great, gray cat. “Trust,” she told him, “is only an issue where there is an absence of power.”

Jewel laughed, which caused platinum brows to lift. “It’s always an issue, for me.”

“Truly?”

Shadow was muttering to himself. There were a lot of sibilants.

“Yes, truly. If Celleriant chose to strike me down here, I would die.”

“You would
not
,” Shadow said.

“Absent all other interference, I would.”

“Would
not
.”

Jewel exhaled. “Fine. If I were alone with Celleriant and he chose to kill me, I would die.”

Celleriant was not Shadow; he did not disagree.

“But he serves you?”

Jewel nodded.

“May I ask why?”

“Yes—but you’ll have to ask him.”

Shianne frowned. “Too much has changed,” she said—to Celleriant. “Too much is strange. The halls seem empty of life and light; there is no sound, no song. Not even the wind plays here. What will we find beyond them?”

Celleriant said, “I do not know. I have not walked these halls. If they were ever spoken of at all, it was in ways so subtle I do not recall their mention. The wilderness was once a vast and endless space—but it was oft treacherous and unpredictable.” He smiled; breeze moved his hair. It did not, however, touch hers. “And I have not wandered in halls of this size and grandeur since my youth.”

“And how distant is your youth, Lord Celleriant?”

“Not as distant as yours.” There was no insult—at all—in the words; indeed, there was almost the hush of reverence. “I was born in the Summer; I came of age in the Winter. When the Winter Queen called me, I joined her host. I rode in the Wild Hunt, over the endless winter landscape. If you do not know winter, you do not understand the beauty of the ice and snow and the cold, clear face of the watching moon; you have not heard the song of the horns.”

She was silent and watchful, but her expression had softened. “And she rides at the head of the Wild Hunt?”

“Always,” he whispered. “If you but close your eyes, you can see her astride her mount; she wears raiment of white and silver over armor of almost the same color; the horn is in her hand or at her lips and her eyes shame moon’s light. Nothing escapes her; there is no place that her quarry might flee that she cannot pursue.”

This was not entirely true, but Jewel did not interrupt. He seemed young and almost defenseless as he spoke. This was not the boy—if boy was the word—who had once sat beneath the boughs of ancient, Summer trees. And yet, she thought, he had loved those voices, too.

“Almost, I can see her,” Shianne whispered. “Almost, you make me yearn for this Winter that I have never known. But you did not see her as she was before she was Winter and Summer Queen. She rode to war—”

“She rode to war when the gods walked,” Celleriant replied, “Even in my time. The Winter and Summer roads were her power; not even the gods could move the lands against her when she stood upon them.”

This, too, surprised Shianne. “She could hold those roads against the will of the gods?”

“Yes. She could not be moved from them, and they could not be altered or changed while she stood upon them. It was tried,” he added, “but she spoke with greater authority to the ancient earth than even the gods themselves could.”

Silver eyes softened; Jewel thought, for a moment, there would be tears. And there were. She had to look away—and then, to look back. If tears were a sign of weakness, Shianne truly felt no fear exposing it. Jewel wondered what it would be like to be Shianne.

You could not
, the Winter King said.

I know that.

He was amused.
It is not that she is beautiful and you are not, although that is true.
He spoke without rancor or malice.
She is steel. She is edge. She is
of
the Winter Queen. On the most grim of your days, Terafin, you could not become as she is; on the best of your days, you would despise it utterly.

You don’t.

No—but that has long been a source of conflict between us. What I see as strength, you do not. You cannot. But I have come to understand, leader of your den, that what you see as strength is, in a fashion, strong. I could not take the risks you have taken. I would not have survived. But you have. Survival is the ultimate test. I had no desire to take the risks you take, when I ruled.

I know.

Yes. But when I was a youth, Terafin—no, even before that, as a child, I did.
I had that desire; I took that risk. I was not wise; I lacked experience and the understanding that follows. I survived it. I only barely survived. I was mortal, as you are. But I did not come early into my power, as you did. You have seen me, in the dreaming, as I existed when I ruled the Tor Amanion.

Had I chosen the life you chose, I would not have been there. I think of you as weak, yes. But very few others see—or hear—the constant stream of fear and doubt that comprises so much of your thought. Do not attempt to change; Shianne is not an attainable goal for you.

Adam groaned; Jewel shifted her hold and whispered into his sleep. She wasn’t certain what he heard; he murmured the word “Matriarch” before he once again fell silent.

“I do not know what your life was like,” Celleriant told Shianne. “Nor, it appears, do you understand ours. She is the heart of Winter and Summer; she is not merely the detritus of the turn of the seasons. You knew Winter and Summer in your time.”

“. . . Yes. But not as you know them. They were deep things, the shift and change of a world that did not
break
the world itself. They marked the passage of time for those who must live, always, beyond its reach. Do you feel the passage of time?”

“Yes, Lady. And no.”

“No more do I. I do not feel changed. I do not feel irrevocably wed to the march of both time and death.” Her hand fell to the rounded curve that spoke of new life. “Will I, Jewel?”

Jewel wanted to say no. The desire was visceral. But she could not lie to this woman; she said nothing.

Shianne turned. As she turned, the cats who bracketed her swiveled as well. Jewel exhaled. Age was a fact of life, as was death. “Adam,” she said, “is young. He is not yet adult, by our reckoning; he is a youth, not a man.

“And you?”

“I would be considered full-grown among my kin.”

Shianne crossed the distance between them; the Winter King had halted. He allowed her to approach, lifting his head, raising the tines of his antlers higher so that they might be farther from her face.

Shianne’s left hand remained upon the child she carried within; she lifted her right, offering it to Jewel. Jewel thought she meant to mount.

No
, the Winter King said.

She’s pregnant,
Jewel replied, irritated.

Yes. But, Jewel—I will not carry her.

You’re carrying Adam!

Yes. And I have carried old men and young before, at your behest. Had I found—had I located your Ellerson or your Carver, I would have borne them to you. But I will not carry this woman.

Why?

I would carry Lord Celleriant first, if you commanded it.

And if I commanded that you carry a pregnant woman?

A woman, yes. But that is not what she is. I will not—I
cannot
—bear Shianne. Do not ask it.

Something about his tone spoke not of distaste or fear or—as it would have in Jewel’s case—embarrassment. He spoke with a certainty she heard only in herself, and only rarely. She swallowed.
Will you bear Adam if I am not—

Yes. He will not fall.

She climbed down. It was awkward; she almost dragged poor Adam with her. Angel righted the healer, but did not join Jewel.

Shianne touched her face with the tips of cool fingers, as if reading it. She searched her eyes, and the shape of those eyes; she touched her lips at either corner, the line of her chin, her cheekbones. Jewel held her breath without conscious thought.

“You are older.”

“Yes.”

“And stronger.”

“Yes. But in my kind, beyond a certain point, age is not strength.”

“And in me, if I am truly mortal as you are mortal, it will likewise be a weakness.”

Jewel couldn’t imagine it. But then again, she didn’t want to. Mortals were greedy, she thought, lifting a shaking hand to place it over Shianne’s. There were so few perfect moments, they wanted to capture and hold them; to fix them in place; to force them to remain, forever, as they were.

“Yes,” Celleriant said. He had not moved. Shadow had, muttering as his pads dropped far more heavily than they should have against the cold stone. He seemed both drawn to Shianne and afraid of her.

“Tell me about Winter,” Shianne said—to Jewel. She allowed Jewel’s hand to draw hers away from her face, but shifted her position so that their fingers twined. Celleriant’s eyes narrowed.

“I mean her no harm,” Shianne said, although she had never once ceased her scrutiny of Jewel’s face. “If I understand what has happened—and I do not, not completely—I will not reach the White Lady unless I am by your lord’s side.” She might have said more, but her grip suddenly tightened; Jewel’s hand went almost instantly numb. Before she could attempt to retrieve her hand, Shianne reached for her sleeve; she shoved it up Jewel’s arm, quickly enough that the cuffs abraded skin.

Celleriant was between them in an instant. He caught Shianne’s wrist in his left hand. She didn’t appear to notice.

“Where—how—” she had, until this moment, spoken so smoothly and so perfectly it was hard to see her at such a loss for words. Even breath seemed to have deserted her. “Where did you come by this?” She attempted to lift Jewel’s hand, to expose to closer inspection the slender strands of hair that were braided into a bracelet around her wrist. In this light, they were almost invisible—or they should have been.

“It is not for you,” Celleriant whispered. “Nor for me. They were gifted my lord, and they will remain in her keeping.” This time, he called his sword.

Jewel cried out, wordless; she yanked her wrist free. And then, before she could think or plan, she threw both of her arms around Shianne, exposing her back to Celleriant’s edged blade. Blue light was reflected in specks of stone; nothing about it was warm.

Shianne was Winter, in Jewel’s arms.

Her only answer to Celleriant was the sword she now drew; its light was not blue, but gold. The blue light guttered. The gold did not. Jewel tightened her grip, her arms; she could see platinum strands moving against her wrist, as if they contained wind, but only barely.

Kallandras began to sing.

His song was wordless; without words to channel its strength it felt strangely unbound, unconfined. Jewel’s hair blew into—and out of—her eyes as the wind traveled toward the bard in response.

It was Angel who approached the armed Shianne and her mortal shield; Angel who gently pulled Jewel away. She did not resist him; nor did Shianne attempt to cling to her; she raised sword once, in Angel’s direction. Angel could see Shianne’s expression; Jewel couldn’t. Whatever it was Angel saw, he hesitated only briefly before he drew Jewel away.

“Angel—”

Not now
, he signed.

She fell silent. He drew her into the orbit of the Winter King who, unlike Celleriant, had not chosen to interfere. She looked back to see Shianne, sword in hand; she carried no shield, but the blade itself seemed to hold her attention; she was staring at it as if she had never seen sword before in her life.

Jewel had seen a sword almost identical only a handful of times. Avandar’s sword.

Yes,
Avandar replied.
And so, it is true. She is no longer as she once was.

The sword’s light dimmed as the sword faded from view. Shianne, however, turned to Jewel. Angel stood between them, but not as Celleriant had done. “It has been so long,” she whispered—although her voice carried. “So long. Jewel. Matriarch. What you bear, now—how did it come to be in your hands? I accuse you of no theft; such a theft would be impossible—even for gods—while the White Lady lived.

“But you do not understand what it is that you bear.”

“And you do.”

“Yes. I understand what it presages. I understand why—even if the White Lady is entrapped—you will be able to reach her. I do not know if any others will—the gift was given to you, and not to your companions.”

“What does it signify?” Jewel asked.

But Shianne did not reply. Instead, she said, “Lord Celleriant, I do not know your Winter Queen; you do not know my White Lady. No one of us—not even my sisters—saw her in exactly the same light; she had subtle and different meanings for each of us. I assume that has not changed and I will not ask what she means to you; it is clear to me now that we are kindred spirits.

“Let me ask instead, one question, and only one. You have ridden with her host for almost all of your existence. You have seen her stand against gods. Tell me, in your existence at her side, how much did your numbers increase?”

He frowned.

“How many, Lord Celleriant, were born after you?”

Silence. The silence had layers that Jewel couldn’t penetrate.

“None?” Shianne continued, her voice soft. “None in all of the long years you have served her?”

“I am the last Prince of her Court.”

Shianne bowed her head for one long moment. “And what happened, between then and now? Why did she choose as she has chosen?”

Celleriant’s silence was rigid. It was shorn of dignity, shorn of defiance. Jewel had seen him like this only once. Without thought she moved to stand between the two members of the White Lady’s court. She turned to face Shianne, whose gaze was anchored inches above the top of Jewel’s messy hair. She shoved that hair out of her eyes.