Oracle: The House War: Book Six (55 page)

She walked quickly through the open doors.

 • • • 

Jester was, to her surprise, waiting for her on the other side. The doors through which she had walked no longer existed at her back; instead, she was framed by a wrought iron structure that implied the existence of a gate, without actually containing one.

Birgide looked beyond Jester ATerafin. Beyond and above. There was no ceiling here. There were no obvious walls. There were shelves, but closer inspection—even at this distance—indicated those shelves were also . . . trees. The flooring was a pale, unstained wood; she would have sworn it was a softwood, which was in no way suitable for the chambers it occupied.

Except that nothing in her experience would suit these chambers. Nothing except the
Ellariannatte
. She almost closed her eyes, so strongly did she sense their presence.

“Sorry,” Jester said brusquely. “I have to admit this is not my favorite part of the manse these days.”

“Was it ever one of them?”

“Sure. I was never summoned here, so anything that occurred here was guaranteed not to be my problem.” As she raised brows, he added, “Lazy, remember?”

“We all have some measure of laziness—we’re human. But yours, given your position in the House, is taken to ridiculous levels.”

“Not ridiculous. Merely self-serving. I’m perfectly happy to acknowledge my multitude of personal weaknesses.”

“Because you hope they will disqualify you from having to actually be useful?”

He grinned. “You see? You’re coming to understand me better as the days pass.”

Birgide smiled absently, her attention once again drawn away by amethyst skies that seemed to stretch out on all sides with no visible end. “Are we staying here?”

His shoulders slumped. “I hoped so. But he doesn’t appear to be arriving to meet us.”

“Does he usually?”

“Yes. He’s taken up residence here, and he’s ferocious about defending the space. The Chosen keep a very skeletal guard—but I don’t think it’s for his benefit. We don’t want to lose any of the Household Staff to the wilderness.” He began to walk to the right of the fence, toward the shelves. Birgide was almost afraid to touch them.

The thin strands of light that were scattered throughout the Terafin manse were nowhere in evidence in this room. Or perhaps, she thought, following in Jester’s wake, they were so much part of this landscape they could not be separated from it; she heard music, distant but distinct, every time she took a step. If Jester heard the same, he gave no sign.

Nor did she ask; as she considered the wording of the question that was forming, she was distracted by the sharp, harsh illumination of lightning. Pale, white-green streaks flashed across the whole of the sky, changing both its texture and its color.

Jester exhaled. “We’ve come at a bad time,” he said, as if such obvious magic was commonplace here. “No wonder the path was allowed to finish forming there.”

“Is it a common occurrence?”

“It’s not common. It has happened. It’s how we lost Ellerson and Carver. Meralonne is—can be—aware of when doors within the manse become strange, and he usually deals with them.”

“How?”

Jester shot her a look.

“You didn’t ask. Of course. Never mind.”

“I didn’t,” he added, “ask you how you knew, either.”

“No.” She didn’t volunteer the information; she didn’t understand it well enough herself. “But you did accept that I did.”

“I saw what happened in the forest,” he replied. “At the moment, I’m inclined to trust your instincts.”

Lightning flashed across the sky again. It was accompanied by a roar that literally shook the floor beneath their feet. Jester was understandably tense; he was not, however, frightened.

“Does
this
happen often?”

“I don’t know. I don’t ask the House Mage—”

“Questions. You really are remarkable.”

“You don’t say that as if it’s a good thing.”

She could not help it, she laughed. “I have always thought you feckless and lazy,” she told him, when she stopped. “But I must admit that your dedication elevates it into an art.” She frowned. “That last flash of lightning was different.”

“The blue one?”

“Yes.”

Jester nodded. “I don’t know about you,” he said, “but I’ve been walked off my feet this afternoon. I’m going to sit down.” He looked up at the skies as amethyst once again reasserted itself. To Birgide’s ears, so did the subtle, insistent song, the whisper of leaf against leaf and branch. She followed Jester down a row of shelves, glancing at the spines of the books; the language, which began as familiar, modern Weston, devolved into Old Weston, and from there, into languages with which she was not familiar. So, too, the style of bindings.

She did not touch the shelves, although the temptation was strong. Instead, she walked clear of them. As if they were a literal forest, there was a clearing in their center: a thing of floor, table, and chair. Beyond these, she could see a fountain, a clear, primitive font of stone and wood; lilies in pale pink and violet adorned the slightly rippling water.

Jester pulled out a chair and sat, leaning back in a lazy sprawl. She was not particularly surprised to see him put his feet on the table’s surface. The table itself was home to a small stack of books and a single, silvered mirror of the kind that one found in modest dressing rooms.

“You might as well sit,” Jester told her.

“We are waiting?”

“For Meralonne. When he’s finished—and assuming he’s survived—he’ll join us here. I hope you don’t mind pipe smoke.”

“He still smokes?”

“Only if it irritates someone. I don’t really mind it,” he added. He folded his arms and tilted his face toward sky. “Did you see him much, when you were a student in the Order?”

“No. He was, however, infamous for both his pipe and his general demeanor. Most of the mage-born are arrogant and dismissive when dealing with the lesser students. Meralonne was arrogant and dismissive when dealing with anyone, which somehow made it easier to bear.”

“I disliked the waste of my time,” the mage said.

Birgide blinked. Meralonne APhaniel was floating some ten feet above the table, his hair a spread of unfettered platinum that adorned his shoulders and fell across the whole of his back. He wore no other cape, and at the moment, carried no weapon.

But seeing him now, seeing him this close, she felt, viscerally, that he was
of
this place, and not the halls that existed beyond it, be they Terafin manse or Order of Knowledge. The wind that touched his hair carried him down to the floor.

“You are Birgide Viranyi,” he said, surprising her. He almost shocked her by tendering her what appeared to be a very respectful bow. His smile, as he rose, acknowledged this. “My apologies, ATerafin. I was much occupied.”

“I can see that,” Jester replied, taking his feet off the table and pushing himself, reluctantly, from his chair. “You’re bleeding.”

He was. Birgide had both cataloged it and failed to find it either disturbing or inappropriate. He looked much like any warrior come directly from the field of battle, save for the lack of weapon. “It is inconsequential. Come. Let us attend to the disturbance in the main hall.” He turned to Birgide, and, if the events of the day had not already passed beyond the bizarre, pushed them into the surreal: he offered her his arm.

She was aware, accepting it, that her own hands were dirty, callused; that she was dressed as a gardener and not a dignitary of note; that she was scarred, her nose once broken, her hair shorn. Even when it had grown, it had never grown as his did. All of these things were true any given day of the week—or year—but she seldom felt them so keenly. Interesting.

“You will not often see me in the manse itself,” he told her, as he led them back the way they’d come. Jester walked to her right, in silence. “In the absence of The Terafin, creatures grow bold, and these lands are not well-defended.” His smile was sharp. “Or they would not be, were I not here.

“Your duties are somewhat more mundane.”

He spoke as if he knew.

“The Terafin as she exists now is bound tightly to the world you inhabit. But the roads that lead to her are also hers; because she cannot acknowledge them fully, there are weaknesses in her defenses. You are meant to stand where she cannot stand in her absence. I am both surprised and unsurprised.”

“You
do
know.”

“Of you? Yes. The forest speaks your name. Serve The Terafin,” he added, his voice cooling. “Serve the forest, if you must. But serve as the Chosen serve. The ancient world is waking, and it is wild. There is beauty in it such as you and your kin—talent-born, god-born, mighty or insignificant, have never witnessed. But there is danger in it. There is no malice, but service does not mean to the ancient what it means to mortals.”

“The cats,” Jester pointed out.

The mage grimaced, his eyes narrowing at the mention of The Terafin’s chaotic winged retinue. “What they offer is no one’s definition of service, on either side of the divide; it is possible that mortals might consider it acceptable. It is not. I would not suffer them to exist in any space I claimed as my own.”

“I believe the cats care about The Terafin.”

Meralonne APhaniel exhaled. “Yes. Inasmuch as it is possible for those feckless, dangerous infants to care about anything other than their momentary entertainments, I would agree. That did not prevent one of them from almost ending her life.”

Birgide had not heard of this, and did not ask. If there was time, it would come later. She was concerned with the mage’s knowledge of the role she had only just accepted, because she felt suddenly certain he had a far better understanding of it than she did. “What does service mean to the forest?”

“It is entirely dependent, at this point, on you. If you are careless, that will not remain true. Service is an artifact of power; the powerful rule; the powerless are ruled.”

Birgide frowned. “Is that not always true?”

He laughed. “Mortals play at power. Money is power. Prestige is power. Talent is power. Should the Kings desire it, however, they could not level this city in a day. They could not level it in a year, if they met with any resistance.”

“And you are claiming the forest
can?
”

“Look at the library through which we now walk,” he replied, “and understand that the whole of it—what you can see, and what you cannot—was created in minutes, if that. You have walked the paths lined by trees of silver, gold, and diamond—and they, too, took root in a similar span of time.”

“Neither of these things happened in isolation.”

“No. They happened because of The Terafin. You have some experience with changes wrought outside of the boundaries of the Terafin properties. Or perhaps you do not; accept that I do, and they have. Those changes, like these, occurred in a span of minutes.”

“You are saying The Terafin is a power.”

“Yes.”

“And if I serve her—”

“She did not take your oath of service; the heart of her forest did. If you will take advice—and it is freely given and quite possibly worth only what you pay to hear it—you will offer your formal oath to
her
the moment she returns. She has limitations that the high wilderness would not even begin to understand—but what she accepts, the forest will accept.” He reached the iron arch. “And now, we must attend the difficulty in the manse itself.”

“APhaniel.”

“Yes?”

“What causes the difficulty?”

He did not answer.

B
IRGIDE HAD STOOD BY the side of the House Mage while he examined the section of wall the House Guard now forbid anyone to touch. Anyone did not include Meralonne, of course; he gestured them away, and they went. To Birgide’s eye, they were grateful to be relieved of the task. She stepped back so that she might watch both the mage and the paneled section of wall.

“You’re staying?” Jester asked.

She glanced at him.

“Suit yourself. I find staring at walls unentertaining at best, and I’m heading back to my rooms.”

Birgide nodded, turning back to Meralonne. Even in this room, which was in all ways more mundane, he looked as if he belonged to some ancient, wild magic that she could witness, but never approach or use.

Where strands of colored light graced the room, they were concentrated for the most part at the level of the lighting and the windows themselves; there was very little to be found at foot level. The strands were violet and orange, the colors blending and diverging as strands traveled.

Only around the paneling that the mage now faced were they different. It wasn’t the color so much as the texture; the strands were thicker, the weave tighter. They emitted no sound when touched—or at least no sound Birgide could hear; she was reluctant to test the limits of her newfound perception, given Jester’s reaction.

Meralonne touched nothing. He studied the gleaming wood grain as if the lines there told a story only he could read. “Do you see what I see?” he asked softly.

“No.”

“And yet you see that something does not belong here.”

She nodded.

“How does it differ, to your eye?”

“I can’t explain it,” she replied.

His eyes, which remained focused upon the paneling, narrowed. If he was petty and aggravating to many of the magi within the Order, he was sober, even grave, here. Birgide watched as the thick, dense weave began to unravel, threads moving as if they had will and purpose of their own, and seeking surfaces to which to cling.

He allowed them none.

“How is this dangerous?” she asked.

“I am almost not of a mind to answer the question, given your own evasion,” he replied. He exhaled, and—later than Jester had predicted—drew a pipe from the folds of his robe. She blinked. He had not been wearing the robe when they had met him in the library above; nor had he been wearing it when they had descended into the manor proper.

Meralonne had never been of a mind to answer any irrelevant questions—where relevance was based entirely on his own interests, whatever they might be. Birgide, accustomed to this, fell silent.

He surprised her. “It is not clearly understood by most of the citizens of Averalaan, but the city itself is situated on dangerously unstable ground. You spent some time recently in the Western Kingdoms?”

She nodded.

“And, no doubt, you heard rumors of strange happenings along the roads?”

She nodded again, this time more slowly.

“The world is changing, Birgide. No power exists which will stop that change; small pockets of power exist which might mitigate the damage it causes. I would be one of those small pockets. The Terafin would be another. In my opinion,” he added, lighting the pipe he held in his hands, “She is the only significant one. What the Kings, the Exalted, and the rest of the Order combined might achieve is insignificant in comparison.

“And Jewel’s reach is defined by borders of the city. They know,” he added.

“They?”

“Those who serve the Lord of the Hells, and those who have lived for far, far too long in the shadows and the hidden byways barely acknowledged by your kind at all. They know she is absent. But even absent, she is connected to these lands. Do you understand the connection?”

“How could I, Member APhaniel? I am not mage-born. I am not a historian; I am not one of the more enterprising of the bards. Even the wise do not understand how she was able to intervene on the first day of The Terafin’s funeral rites; they know only that her intervention was necessary.

“I have seen trees of silver, gold, and diamond. I have seen a tree of fire. I have seen amethyst skies and trees that
grow shelving
. There is nothing in any of this that can be rationally explained by the logical mind. And yet I do not doubt what I have seen.”

He blew rings of smoke in reply. Birgide did not particularly care for pipe smoke. She was, however, perfectly capable of tolerating it as if it were the most wonderful aroma in the Empire when it came, as it did, from one of the most dangerous men she had ever met.

“Do you understand why you were chosen?”

“No.”

“Because you are not one of her den. You are an outsider.”

Birgide had been an outsider for all of her life. She was used to it. It did not sting. Or so she told herself.

“You came to her through channels that are political—and dangerous. On an instinctive level, she understands the games you play; she accepts the risks you have made an intrinsic part of your life. She did not know you when you were twelve, or fourteen, or even sixteen. She did not know you before she became Terafin.

“She can, therefore, believe in your competence.”

“If Jester ATerafin is any indication of the competence of her friends—”

“He is not,” was the bored, slightly irritated response, “as you are well aware. She is willing to see you take the risks you have chosen to take in her service. She is, on a very fundamental level, reluctant to risk her den. I believe this was made clear to you.”

“You were listening?”

“I do, on occasion.” His smile was sharp. “Understand that they are, at the moment, necessary. If the Kings die—”

Birgide held up a hand.

Meralonne, being magi, ignored it. “—They will be replaced. Their sons are young, but capable. Once or twice in the past, the Queens have served as regents until the princes came of age; it would not even be necessary at the present time. It signifies little. The Kings, in any combination, cannot do what must be done to preserve your city and empire.”

“And The Terafin can.”

“I did not say that. I have doubts—but if there is to be any hope, it lies with her.”

“And she is not here.”

“No,” was his grave reply. “You are. Deal with the difficulties as you see fit, if you accept my assessment—but do so quickly.”

“She is unlikely to know if damage is done to her informal council in her absence.”

“Is she?”

 • • • 

And so, Birgide planned. She did not discuss these plans with Jester; there was no point. Nor did she discuss them with the vastly more organized and competent Finch. She did not communicate with Duvari through the regular channels open specifically to her; she no longer trusted them.

She was not certain she trusted the Lord of the Compact, and that was a bitter thought. But the logistics of the operation, while largely unknown to Birgide, were known to others. The likelihood that they were the source of the breach was not zero; it was the only thing that offered hope for the future of the
Astari
.

While Birgide planned, she worked. She tended the mundane grounds at the direction of the Master Gardener; she tended the wilderness when the work that could be easily inspected by any passerby was finished. In both cases, she was silent and solitary. The gardening staff, predictably, viewed her with some suspicion; she had vaulted above them in seniority almost instantly, and that never encouraged collegiality. With time, she would earn a place among these men and women—or perhaps not; she did not have the time to build a collegial base from which to operate.

She was not, however, unfriendly; she was neither arrogant nor condescending, although she could use either to her benefit should the need arise. Had she not accepted Jester’s offer, she might have been unconcerned.

She had, and therefore, she was. Meralonne’s dismissal of the importance of the Kings and their future role sat poorly with her; she did not ascribe his attitude to the magi or the Order of Knowledge. She ascribed it, she thought, as she lifted her head and stretched beneath the boughs of the
Ellariannatte
, to the wilderness. The thought brought no comfort.

Between her feet was a planter. In it, she had carefully culled a cutting or three, as she had done many times during the past decade. The soil in which those cuttings were now loosely planted was from the forest.

She did not believe that these clippings would fare any better than any other clippings she had taken from the great trees in the Common, but they were both her comfort and her pretext. She intended to go to
Avantari
. She intended to plant them in the Kings’ gardens; she had, in fact, standing permission to do exactly that, should her long research at last bear fruit.

The standing permission was, of course, meant to be handled with appropriate care; it was not to be abused. There were channels through which she must go; if the Terafin Master Gardener was proprietary and difficult with regards to his own domain, he was one tenth as protective as the Master Gardener responsible for the grounds of
Avantari
, who would, no doubt, be prickly and almost beside himself at her effrontery.

She would not, however, grovel. What she had been willing to endure for a chance to work beneath the boughs of the
Ellariannatte
here, she would not be willing to endure from the gardeners of
Avantari
.

It was inconceivable that Duvari would have no knowledge of her arrival. She was not certain how this would be interpreted, given that she had made no formal request of him. She hoped that he would interpret it correctly, but allowed for the possibility that it was already too late for Duvari.

“I see Jester did not exaggerate.”

“Does everyone who happens to work within the manse learn to walk so silently they offer no warning?” Birgide asked. She did not cease the careful arrangement of cuttings and soil; nor did she immediately rise; her hands were dirty.

“My apologies,” the unexpected visitor said. “I am content to wait while you finish.”

“I assume that you consider the visit itself of some import.”

“I seldom interrupt someone else’s work for trivial reasons, given how little I appreciate such interruptions myself.”

Birgide wiped her hands clean—or as clean as they would be without soap, a brush, and warm water. She then extended her right hand to the older gentleman who stood at a distance. He glanced at her hand with the slight lift of brows.

She kept her hand extended. “I am, as I suspect you know, Birgide Viranyi.”

He took it. His grip was firm, but brief.

“You are?”

“I am Haval Arwood. I have part-time residence within the West Wing as tailor and dressmaker.”

Had Jester mentioned a resident older man? Birgide offered him a neutral nod as he withdrew. He stood just outside of her natural unarmed combat range; he stood outside of her armed combat range, as well, although she was not visibly armed.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “but I’m not attired to entertain.”

“Meaning you would like me to leave you to your very necessary work.”

“Without intent to insult or offend, yes.”

“Intent is always a tricky thing.” He smiled.

The smile was disturbing. Birgide found herself unconsciously shifting position.

“I did not come here with intent to harm. I am not certain,” he added, glancing at the branches of the tree beneath which she stood, feet planted and slightly apart, knees almost imperceptibly bent, “that I would have found you, otherwise. These parts of the grounds are . . . difficult to navigate.”

“You’ve tried?”

He nodded. “I have always managed to find my way out. I do not believe this is guaranteed.”

She frowned. “Why did you try?”

“Because this forest is at the heart of The Terafin’s power, and I desired to have a better understanding of it.”

“And did you gain that?”

“No. But there are things beyond my ken at work.”

“And today?”

“I believe you intend to visit
Avantari
later this afternoon.”

Birgide nodded. She saw no point in denial.

“I would like you to carry a message for me when you go.”

“To who?”

“An old acquaintance. I do not guarantee that he will be
pleased
to receive it, however; it is not without some attendant risk.”

She revised her opinion of Haval Arwood in that moment; she would have to do some research—quickly—when she reached
Avantari
. “I am not, that I am aware of, often tasked with the duties of a messenger.”

“No? I foresee a future in which you will become accustomed to being so.” He handed her a scroll case; it was simple; it was also sealed. Birgide did not recognize the seal.

“To whom would you like this message delivered?”

He raised a brow but did not answer. Instead, he removed a leather satchel with narrow straps from his side. “This is for you, in payment for the favor I have asked. You may find it useful. You may not—and I would, in all honesty, prefer the latter. If it is not useful, keep it; if it is useful, return it.”

She frowned. She was not naturally trusting; had she been, Duvari would have beaten it out of her years ago. But she trusted her instincts, and Haval Arwood did not strike her as a threat.

“Is it valuable?” she asked, taking the satchel.

“Yes, but not in the traditional, mundane sense of that word. Honest dirt will not devalue it. My apologies for any delay my presence may have caused you.” He bowed. It was a neat, crisp bow.

Birgide glanced, briefly, at the satchel; the leather was worn and shiny; it was not new.

“Ah,” he said, pausing without turning back. “If you do, indeed end up speaking with him—and in the very worst case, you will not—tell him that he is, in my opinion, a smokescreen. The danger, should it arrive, will arrive here—in House Terafin—and not within
Avantari
. I have no proof, but I have uncovered information which strongly supports that supposition.”

“He’ll ask what it is,” Birgide said, reluctant to join this conversation, but equally reluctant to allow him to just walk away.