Oracle: The House War: Book Six (52 page)

“Have you ever met another who speaks in a tongue that you cannot understand?”

Shianne looked to Celleriant.

“They do not hear language as we do,” he replied. “Mortals cannot even make themselves understood to each other, unless they first learn the correct words. It is not a limitation we share.” To Jewel he said, “there is no mortal tongue that the Winter Queen cannot speak; no tongue that she cannot understand. Shianne speaks as we speak; she speaks as the White Lady speaks.”

“But surely it is not to ask that that you are here?” Shianne said, once again turning her attention to Jewel.

“No. No, sorry. You knew Meralonne when he was one of the four. Before he was one of the four. I am not afraid of Meralonne; I trust that he will not destroy my home in my absence, no matter what occurs.” She grimaced, remembering a fight in the grand foyer of the Terafin manse on a dark, dark evening a lifetime ago. “He won’t deliberately destroy it.

“But Meralonne felt it likely that the other three
would
. And I won’t be there to prevent that, if they waken. I’ll be here.”

“There is nothing you can do to prevent it, should destruction be their desire,” Shianne replied, her brow creasing at the utter absurdity of that hope. “Nor could Lord Celleriant; not even I, at the peak of my power, could stand against three. I could hold ground against one, perhaps. But not now. Never again.” Her hands trembled as she spoke. “There is only one who might—and she is trapped in the Hidden Court.”

Jewel nodded. “I understand that. I understand that in order to secure the safety of my home I must find a way into the Hidden Court—and open a way out—before the Sleepers wake. I have to bring the Winter Queen to my city—and before that, I have to have every ancient assurance that she will command the Sleepers to do no harm while doing no harm herself.

“I’ve seen the Wild Hunt,” she added, her voice dropping. “Let loose in Averalaan, they would do as much damage as the Sleepers.”

“I do not think that possible,” Shianne replied, “given what Lord Celleriant has said. And I do not think you can bind the White Lady to such a promise. You are too desperate.”

Jewel nodded; she was a merchant. She understood the burden need placed on a seller. “I’m desperate,” she agreed, a hard edge to her tone. “But not, in the end, as desperate as she is.”

“Oh?” The question was chilly.

“She’ll be trapped in the Hidden Court if she won’t negotiate. If my city is to face destruction no matter what I do, I’ll be damned if I help her.”

Celleriant lifted his head.

“Don’t,” Jewel told him. “I mean it.”

“I am aware of that,” he replied. “But aid is not wed to you or your survival.”

Stop him
, the Winter King said.

It was too late, and they both knew it. “It is,” Jewel countered. Years of difficult negotiations—many of which came with veiled threats of unspecified harm—had left their mark. She lifted her wrist, pulling her sleeve back to expose the almost invisible strands of hair braided and knotted around it. “You cannot use it. Nor can Shianne.” The words were the truth; they were immutable. “The way is closed to both of you. If a path exists, it is a path I will create, and I create it with her tacit permission. What I bear otherwise is necessary—but it will never reach her if I am dead.”

“Once you reach the Hidden Court, that condition no longer applies,” Celleriant said.

Jewel nodded. She was aware of this. She had not yet decided how best to counter it—if it could be countered at all. Evayne had sent Kallandras to her, bearing a slender sapling.

A Summer tree. The last of its kind. Without it, there would be no Summer. Without it, there would be no road for the White Lady to travel, for Winter was over.

Jewel knew her own weaknesses. She accepted them. She carried them with her now: Angel, Adam. Grimacing, she added the names of the rest of her party to that list, saving only Avandar. Avandar whose desire, in the end, was death. His own death. She knew Ariane could use any of her other companions against her.

Yes
, the Winter King said.

She had not yet come up with a plan. Depending on the gratitude or the mercy of the Winter Queen was not, and could not be, part of it. The Winter King acknowledged this with a faint hint of approval.

The great hall continued for what felt like a mile—or perhaps longer. The pillars that rose to either side seemed like great stone trees in an orderly, sculpted forest. She wondered, briefly, if she would see leaves of stone; if they would fall at her feet with a heavy thud and lay there, for gathering.

Leaves of stone had existed in the undercity, in the stone garden. She had never had the temerity to take them—if they could be removed from their stone stems, their stone trellises, at all. She wondered what she might have planted in her forest, had she.

Whatever it was, it couldn’t have grown into this. This was not a monument; it was an edifice, as natural as distant mountains or storms at sea. Men had not labored for decades to create it; it was like—very like—the architectural changes wrought by the wild earth in
Avantari
.

It was like the rounded, domed room with its carved statues; there was a sense that, at any time, the stone might move, shifting position and composition at its own convenience. She could not walk here without awe.

But she did walk, Shianne by her side. She forced herself to remember that the Sleepers were
of
this hall, this place, this hidden world. They were majestic; they were beautiful; they were death.

“If we anger them enough, will they come here first?” she asked.

“If what Lord Celleriant has said of your city is true, they will not need to,” she replied. “He says there is no magic, no strength in your walls or your mortals—not to withstand the oldest of the Princes.”

“We have Meralonne,” Jewel replied, without much hope.

“Yes. And he understands the strengths and the weaknesses of your kind in a way my brethren will not. But he stands in isolation, riven from the life that made him—when I knew him—what he was. If they have slept since their failure, they will not wake greatly changed.” She smiled; it was a soft, hollow expression—what wistfulness would have been had it been sharper and harder.

“How do we make them come to us?”

Shianne did not appear to understand the question. She spoke to Celleriant; Celleriant stared straight ahead, as if he had heard neither her question nor the one that had preceded it. Avandar added nothing; nor did the Winter King.

They walked in the silence of a funeral procession; only Terrick and Angel spoke, and neither was chatty.

They might have walked this way for hours, but ahead, at last, was a wall. It was bone white and entirely unadorned; there were no pillars, no statues, no carvings and no engravings; the wall rose up, and up again, marking an end.

 • • • 

Jewel knew, as Shianne continued to walk, that they had reached the end of these halls; the end of the shelter that kept most of the wilderness out. There were no visible doors in that one wide stretch of wall that seemed to travel to either side for as far as the eye could see. But there wouldn’t be, here; doors would be too easy.

Shianne did not slow at all.

“Lady,” Terrick said, his voice softer, the hesitance at odds with his weapon and his general stance, “we do not see a door or an arch through which to pass.” His Weston was oddly accented, but clear. Jewel almost told him to speak Rendish, as Shianne would understand it; she didn’t, because she wouldn’t.

Shianne frowned. To Celleriant, she said, in clear Weston, “Do you see no exit?”

He was silent for a few seconds. “No,” he finally said. “If there is a pathway here, it is not visible to my eye.”

I see no path
, the Winter King said, before Jewel could ask him.

Kallandras glanced at the wall, and offered Jewel a very slight shake of the head. It didn’t surprise her. She took a deep breath, exhaled, and reached out to touch the wall her shadow fell against.

She felt stone. It was smooth and hard against the flat of her palm. She felt, in a different way, the relief of her domicis and the Winter King, although neither spoke. Shianne watched her in silence. The Arianni woman almost spoke, but stilled before words left her lips; the hesitance in someone so exquisitely perfect was jarring.

It shouldn’t have been. She was far from kin, wandering the ruins of what had once been her home. And she was pregnant. Jewel had never had a baby; there had never been an infant born to anyone who lived in the West Wing. She couldn’t say when the baby would come—and that worried her. She wasn’t certain what a baby required, either, but she was fairly certain Adam was. Was counting on it, in fact.

But she knew Shianne would not remain in the safety of the halls. If Shianne had given up both power and eternity, she’d done so for a reason, and she would never accomplish it here.

“Matriarch.”

She was surprised by the sound of Adam’s voice. Adam had been softly snoring the last several times she’d checked on him.

She turned slowly, pulling her forehead away from the white stretch of pale stone. She opened her eyes. She did not remember closing them; she didn’t remember the moment at which she had leaned her head against the wall.

He was standing beside her, his arm around her shoulder. His eyes were narrowed in concern. Her confusion must have shown. She glanced past Adam to Angel.

Angel lifted hands in den-sign; his expression was shuttered and neutral—which meant worry.

Avandar—how long have I been standing here?

Four hours.

Four hours. Four hours for a few simple thoughts. The hall was as cold as the realization that her hand now rested against something that was no longer entirely flat.

“Did you at least eat?” she asked them, in aggregate.

Angel stared at her.

“Did the cats come back?”

“No,” Avandar replied. “And that is possibly as much mercy as the halls will show us, today.”

“Then you might as well eat. This is probably as safe as we’re going to be for the next little while.”

Terrick was already tending the packs. This wasn’t the life he was familiar with—it couldn’t be, given their location—but he was possessed of grim, Northern practicality. After a moment, Angel joined him.

Jewel looked at the wall.

It was no longer flat; like the room in the basements of
Avantari
, it was carved. Trees of stone, flowers of stone, and beings that Jewel had seen, briefly, in dream stretched down the length of wall in either direction.

In its center, yards from Jewel’s hand, was a single, simple, stone arch.

12th of Morel, 428 A.A.
Merchant Authority, Averalaan

F
INCH DISLIKED THE
dresses Haval had made. The fabric itself—a deep burgundy and a dark blue, each with a distinctive, nubbled sheen—was appropriate to the station in which Jarven had dumped her. If current necklines were immodest, this dress clashed with them all; she felt as if she were wearing armor. With skirts.

Which was why Finch disliked them. The dress she wore today had not, by the second or third hour of wear, faded into the background the way her regular clothing did. She was constantly aware of its presence—and of its value. The value made her wretchedly nervous, although it was almost immaterial; no one who did not know the cloth itself would remark on it. Likewise, the reason the cloth was so valuable. No one would know but Finch, Haval, and Jarven. Finch, however, was the only one wearing it.

It reminded her constantly of all the ways in which her life might end.

The deaths at the Merchants’ guildhall had yet to be fully tallied; men and women were still listed as missing by their various families, and the excavations required by both the Mysterium and the Magisterium had whittled that list down every few hours.

This made the office empty and quiet enough that she could think, with discomfort, about something as frivolous as clothing.

The skirts had been designed to allow full freedom of motion; they sported pockets hidden across their various seams. The pockets were not, at the moment, empty; they were full of small stones. Each stone had a slightly different texture, and each could be activated by touch. She would have carried the stones regardless of clothing; years under Jarven’s tutelage had made clear why such stones were necessary.

Silence. Misdirected conversation. Light. Shadow. Warmth and coolness. Memory.

The last stone was one she very seldom used, and never when she was not in attendance; she had no need of it, then. Magically captured conversations were, of course, useful—but magic could be manipulated. It was not safe to trust the contents of a stone when one’s presence could not confirm its accuracy.

She rose. Her desk—twin to Jarven’s—was too large and too sparse; Jarven disliked mess. Finch, however, lived in it while she was working; stacks of paper, spare quills, half-empty inkwells and open ledgers covered the surface of any desk she called her own. Until now.

Lucille was at her own desk when Finch opened the door. “He’s not back yet,” she said.

“He’ll be back soon. I’m going to make tea.”

“Might as well.” This in reference to the utter quiet that had descended on the Terafin offices. Finch had, for a change, one appointment today—and as that appointment was with Hectore of Araven, it wouldn’t be productive in traditional merchanting terms.

Guillarne had sent one letter. In it, he was polite, but direct.

Had he sent the letter to Finch, she would have answered it in the same style; the letter, sadly, had been addressed to The Terafin. Since Barston was the first destination for any correspondence in the House, he saw it; since the right-kin was the next stop, should the correspondence merit it, Teller had seen it, and since Teller lived in the same wing of the building as Finch did, Finch had heard of it.

Guillarne was not a happy man. He invited The Terafin to consider the wisdom of acceding to Jarven’s obviously senile demands; Finch’s placement could not, in Guillarne’s mind, have occurred in any other fashion. To give him his due, Finch agreed. He stopped short of threatening The Terafin with his departure; not even Guillarne was that foolish.

Finch had not intended to threaten Guillarne; she had not considered the necessity of keeping him in line. He was flamboyant, yes—and not to be trusted—but he tended to utilize scraps of the truth in his quest for success, and he could charm the dead back to life if it served his purpose.

Finch had never liked him; he had barely acknowledged her existence. But she was well aware that there were far worse fates than simply being ignored. And she had never considered Guillarne a threat to the House—or rather, to Jay’s rulership of the House.

Had Jay been in residence, things would be different. She wasn’t. If Guillarne was to be answered at all, it would be through Teller. Guillarne would accept it, but not with grace; she turned what she knew of the merchant over and over in her mind. It wasn’t useful—but she was, at the moment, severely under-occupied. Making tea for Jarven was so much a part of the daily routine it was almost peaceful; it certainly didn’t cause stress.

She did, however, take the expensive dishes. Lucille had insisted that she use nothing else from now on—for two reasons. The first: that she was now at a level with Jarven in terms of title, and that she would, of course, be granted far less respect. She needed to dress, speak, and accouter herself appropriately—even to the tiniest of details.

The second was the real reason: someone had already attempted to poison Finch. Finch’s attempt to make clear that she was certain it would not happen again fell on the selectively deaf ears of an increasingly mutinous Lucille. Therefore, Finch used the cups. She knew a battle that she couldn’t win with any grace when she saw it, and in truth, she didn’t like to fight with Lucille. If it made the Authority dragon rest easier, it was worthwhile.

And, to be fair, the entire tea set weighed significantly less.

She lifted the tray and carried it to her office. Lucille disliked seeing her do it—for the first reasons, not the second—but Finch felt safe ignoring this. It was grousing. Lucille had never, in all of the years they’d worked together, taken any great pains about her own reputation. She wasn’t concerned if people condescended to her or attempted to ignore her. No one with any sense did it once; no one, period, did it twice.

She had, however, always been protective of how Jarven was seen by the people who frequented the office. And Finch was now part of that office. If anyone could protect that reputation, it was Lucille.

Finch, if a sometimes reluctant student of Jarven’s, had learned from him nonetheless; she was well aware that reputation was a shifting target. It was useful. In Jarven’s case it was now useful as misdirection. Experience was vastly preferable to hearsay.

On some days Lucille opened the office door for Finch. She did so today. Jarven was behind his desk.

Finch glanced at Lucille. Lucille pursed her lips.

“Do not blame Lucille,” Jarven told her. “If you were not paying enough attention to notice that I had arrived, it is hardly her fault. She is not paid to warn or prepare you for inconsequential—and expected—events. Don’t just stand in the door; I have had a very trying morning, and I want my tea.”

Finch smiled.

“And do not give me that smile. Did I mention the morning was trying?”

“You did.” Finch came and set the tea tray on Jarven’s desk. She pulled a visitor’s chair to her customary position, ignoring the desk that she occupied when visitors of any stripe arrived for a meeting. This did not make Jarven’s mood any sweeter; Finch thought he might send her scuttling for her own desk, given the shape of his brows as they folded.

Instead he leaned into his chair, tilting his head back until it rested almost at right angles with the rest of his body. He closed his eyes, lifted his fingers to the bridge of his nose, and held it between them for three long breaths.

“You are not, of course,” he said, eyes still closed, “to blame.”

Finch nodded, although he couldn’t in theory see this. She poured tea, and set biscuits aside, while she considered the weathered, lined face of the man who was her mentor. Lucille was worried for him. She was also worried about him; they were not the same.

But he had lost weight, to Finch’s eye. His color was off. He had been using his cane as if it were a necessity and not an artful affectation. And although he indulged in the characteristic petulance that defined so much of his interaction in the office, his heart wasn’t in it; he did not take his equally characteristic enjoyment from the reactions it invoked.

“Please,” she said, “Do not tell me that you are bored.”

He lifted his right eyelid. “I am weary.”

“Yes. And in my experience, you are never so weary as when you are bored.”

He did smile, then, raising his head and shifting in place so that he might pick up the tea that was steaming almost beneath his nose. “I am not, as you suggest, bored. I cannot, however, believe that I could
ever
be so much the fool that I envied members of the governing body of the Merchants’ Guild their power. And yet, I am somehow uneasily certain I
was
.

“It is a very good thing that I cannot travel back in time and give my younger self the dressing down he so richly deserves.” He shook his head. “And here you are, of an age with that cocky, aggressive young fool—and no such dressing down is required. It embarrasses me.”

“Please don’t be,” Finch replied quietly. “I know who suffers when you feel embarrassed.”

He laughed. It was a dry, thin laugh. “Not, I hope, you.”

“Not overmuch. But Lucille takes it badly.”

“Lucille,” he said, somewhat acerbically, “takes everything badly.”

“She doesn’t, and you know it.” Finch sat back in her chair, cup and saucer in hand, steam embellishing her view of the ancient Terafin merchant.

“I do,” he replied. “But I had hoped, by installing you in your present position, I would shift some of the onerous burden of her worry onto your shoulders.”

“I am perfectly capable of behaving in ways that will not cause Lucille additional stress.”

“Indeed. It is not, however, your actions that will cause her worry.” Jarven took one loud sip of tea before setting the cup aside. “Has young Guillarne been causing difficulty?”

“Not more than I can handle.”

“That is hardly an answer, Finch.”

“And yet it contains all the correct components: it is factual, it is a statement, and it touches upon the possible concerns you have raised.”

He chuckled. “Guillarne would be a fool to take you on.”

“He would be a fool not to,” she countered pleasantly, “if he desires your position. I will never be as uncertain in my post as I am now. I have never particularly liked Guillarne, but I have never said he was a fool. You have,” she added, as he opened his mouth. “But at the moment, we have lost enough.”

“We have lost more than enough.” He fell silent. It was a quiet, steady silence, shorn of petulance and complaint.

“Is it as bad as you feared?”

“It is worse. I had almost forgotten how mendacious merchants could be; Patris Larkasir is almost beside himself with rage.”

“How many of the merchant houses are attempting to take advantage of the current situation?”

“Too many,” was his curt reply.

“Guillarne is not among them.”

“Not in the sense that the idiots who claim membership in the Merchants’ Guild are, no. I am generally tolerant of the games merchants play when the situation is relatively stable; I understand the urge to find something interesting with which to pass time.”

“Boredom is not generally deadly.”

“It is specifically deadly to me.”

And Jarven, of course, shared. “You said you were not bored.”

“I
am
bored. I am sick nigh unto death of writing letters and playing politics with what remains of the governing council of the Guild. I’m tempted to poison the lot of them and fill their positions with people who will not demand so much of my time for so little result.”

“Hectore?”

“He is, of course, being reasonable.”

“Jarven—you
wanted
this.”

“Yes. But I do not desire to be a crutch, and at the moment, that appears to be my only function. Oh, don’t make that face. I am
doing
it, regardless, and if I am to do the work, I am allowed the luxury of complaint.” He lifted his tea again. “If Guillarne is not causing difficulty, who is?”

She hesitated.

He marked it. “Well?”

“We are not entirely certain. Have you spoken with Ruby?”

“Ruby is not causing you difficulty; she is causing
me
difficulty. She can, I admit, be unpleasantly cunning—but she can only be in one place at a time—and believe that that place overlaps with much of my day outside of the haven of my office. Your Jewel chose a very inopportune moment to abandon us.”

Finch nodded. “I am aware that Ruby does not feel that she is appreciated enough by the House. Much of her power resides outside of its very closed doors. I can,” she continued, “deal with Ruby.”

“You are welcome to her.” He frowned. “You have wasted at least ten minutes in hesitance. What have I said about that?”

“I honestly can’t remember.”

“You
are
worried.” He set the cup down, shifting position once again; his elbows now adorned the surface of his desk. His hands, steepled beneath his chin, emphasized the attention he now paid to Finch.

“Yes.”

“It is not a merchant matter.”

“I am uncertain, Jarven. What occurred at the Merchants’ guildhall was not, in the end, a merchanting matter—but more than a hundred lie dead in its wake. No merchant of any power could raise effective arms against what was encountered there.”

“You’ve read Guillarne’s report.”

“I have.”

“It is not just Guillarne’s report.”

She exhaled. “No.”

“You are not certain you wish to inform me of the events that
do
trouble you.”

“Of course I’m not.”

His smile was Winter in a face; slender, unadorned, chilly. “I would say that you are wasted here.” His voice was soft. “But I aspired to this very position with almost everything I had at your age—and I dislike thinking of my own life as a waste.”

“Jarven,” she said, sipping tea and studying his glacial expression, “What I am, I am in part because you taught me. It has never been inconvenient for you because you have never aligned yourself against my interests.” Before he could speak, she added, “Nor will you do so now. You understand me. You understand me far better than I understand you; there is very little of my actual history that you do not know.