Oracle: The House War: Book Six (57 page)

The cuttings she had planted with such care were gone. What now stood in their place were two full-grown trees, with leaves of ivory-edged green that now dangled well above her upturned face. The artful implication of wilderness had been likewise obliterated, but from this vantage, the obliteration looked deliberate.

Birgide bent and retrieved her tools; she must have, because she held them in her hands. But she had no conscious memory of the action; no physical memory of it, either. She saw the trees, and saw the shadows they cast—but also saw, in the heart of the Courtyard gardens, the light. It fell in translucent, golden strands, from height to ground, anchored in earth and stone, twining around brass and plated iron, blending with the blue of carefully sheltered magestones.

It was, she thought, the same light that imbued the wilderness behind the Terafin manse. She passed her hands through it and heard notes; they were similar. Her hands caught on nothing; she felt the shift of temperature, no more, and even that was so slight it might have been imagination.

She heard shouting somewhere in the distance; she heard footsteps. She knew, within minutes, she would no longer be alone at the foot of the
Ellariannatte
she had struggled to grow here for much of her adult life.

She felt no triumph. She understood that this was not, in the end, her success; it was not through dint of will and trial and error, through repeated failures and repeated attempts, that she had finally experienced a measure of success. She understood, and felt a pang of something that was almost disappointment. But no disappointment could survive the sight of these trees.

They did not magically alter the rest of the Courtyard gardens, which was a profound relief. If Sancor was grateful that she had succeeded—and she had no doubt he would be—he nonetheless had to deal with every other artist that toiled here, one of whom would be justifiably unhappy.

Sancor arrived first. Behind him she saw Almette, and behind Almette, three under-gardeners; the three were younger, and their jaws were hanging open. Only Almette was bold enough to breach the distance to hug Birgide; to, in fact, lift her off her feet, squealing in wordless delight.

Sancor would have died first, but even Sancor looked cautiously pleased, although on his sun-weathered face, this barely shifted the line of his brow. Cuttings did not become full-growth trees in seconds. Not even in the Kings’ gardens. But if it could happen in Terafin, his expression implied, it could—and should—happen
here
.

He had not, of course, considered the implications of what it meant should it happen here. And he should have: the entire Palace Staff had been in shock when the supporting pillars—of stone—had magically been transformed into something entirely unfamiliar. So had sections of floor.

It was not spoken of, even among the servants.

If Sancor did not consider the implications, Birgide knew at least one man would. She was not at all surprised when the Lord of the Compact walked down the badly jarred footpath. He didn’t sprint, as the others had; nor did he gape at the two
Ellariannatte
. He barely glanced at them, his measured gaze was so focused.

The gardeners, however, were immediately ill at ease. Duvari had that effect on everyone, regardless of their station.

“Where,” he asked, “did these trees come from?”

No one answered, which surprised Birgide. She would have expected Sancor to throw her to the wolves.

“They are here,” Sancor said stiffly, “with permission.”

“That is not what I asked.”

“That is all you require. You are not the Lord of the Courtyard; you are the Lord of the Compact. If you have concerns, address the Master Gardener.”

Duvari did not look surprised; Birgide was. She failed to stare at Sancor because she could control surprise or shock with relative ease. She, however, had no desire to throw Sancor to the wolves at this particular moment. “With the permission of the Master Gardener, and the Kings themselves, I brought cuttings from the Terafin manse to the Courtyard; if there is blame or suspicion, it must fall on me.”

Duvari nodded. “When did you bring the cuttings?”

He, of course, knew. She was certain he knew to the minute when she had been granted access to
Avantari
and, further, to the Courtyard gardens. She answered his question, regardless.

“Very well. I would like to speak with you further on the subject of these cuttings. Those are your possessions?”

She nodded.

“They are all of the possessions that entered
Avantari
with you?”

She nodded again.

Sancor was annoyed; he was far less adept at hiding this than Birgide. He was Head Gardener here, and junior to no one except the Master Gardener, who was not, in fact, standing in Duvari’s shadow.

“Head Gardener,” Duvari said, before Sancor could speak. “This is not a matter of pretty plants; it is a security matter. You may answer to the Master Gardener in other concerns;
everyone
except the Kings answers to
me
in matters of security.”

“I am not,” Birgide quietly pointed out to Sancor, “a member of the gardening staff. Given the circumstances, his concern is reasonable; I am not offended.”

“You have clearly not spent enough time with the Lord of the Compact,” Sancor replied, somewhat acidly. “But if you are determined to obey, I will accept it. I will be
certain
to mention this to the Master Gardener,” he added.

Birgide did not want to be anywhere near that conversation, but given the slight tautness of Duvari’s expression, wouldn’t be. He was angry. “Will you quarantine the cart?” she asked him.

“The magi,” he replied, “are here. They will, no doubt, be interested in the trees themselves.”

She wilted. Sancor swelled. There was, she thought, no activity in any walk of life that did not, in the end, become political. On the other hand, the war that the gardening staff could start did not generally involve bloodshed and bodies.

 • • • 

And so, she stood in the back office of the Royal Trade Commission. Her gardening tools and her handcart were impounded; the magi were inspecting them, no doubt with disdain and gloves to protect their hands from simple dirt. She had not been subjected to the magi, beyond the cursory entrance scan; she was certain they were demanding that right somewhere beyond her hearing.

On the other hand, the magi did not care for Duvari, nor he for them; he was not inclined to give in to any of their demands, as it set a bad precedent. They would have their work cut out for them.

Accordingly, she had time, and silence, to consider both the office and the events of the afternoon. She had left her handcart; she had not, in fact, left either the satchel or the scroll she had been given. Nor had she surrendered either to Duvari, along with the cryptic message that was to accompany the scroll. No, she thought, the message had not been cryptic. The opinion offered was extremely clear.

She waited. The interior office was empty and would, no doubt, remain so; the front office was staffed by two young men, who looked professional but somewhat harried. The heightened precautions that had caused the number of Kings’ Swords present to swell had had effects everywhere.

No one wanted a demon to burn down a large portion of
Avantari
. Demons had recently entered
Avantari
with the intent to assassinate the princes, and while Duvari was aware no security could have prevented that attack, he was also aware that there were other occasions in which demons had chosen to enter through the front door or the service entrances. If he could not make their presence impossible, he could make it more difficult.

She smiled, thinking it. Duvari was, all vehement diatribes aside, a man. One man. He was not mage-born; not, to Birgide’s knowledge, talent-born at all. But she could easily imagine Duvari going toe-to-toe with the demons. She could rationally assess his chances: poor. But she could not viscerally believe what the rational mind insisted was true.

She did not believe that Duvari was the source of the security breach. She acknowledged that she was not impartial; she had preparations in place, should those beliefs be proved wrong.

As she waited, she gave in to a restlessness that would—in her childhood—have been grounds for severe punishment: she walked. She moved through this one room, touching strands of light above standing cabinets, desks, innocuous workbenches, listening, as she did, for the notes that touch invoked.

She wished, briefly, that golden strands graced this office; the sounds of the violet and blue were lower, resonant base notes. The orange was of a medium range; she wished, again, that she had studied music. She hadn’t. She could play what sounded pleasant to her—but she suspected that the bards could have created a symphony of sound, dancing across the room between clusters of finely tuned strings.

She wondered what the result might be.

“I see you are restless,” A familiar voice said.

She turned as the notes stilled. Duvari had come, and he was not alone. To his right stood a man she had met perhaps twice: Maures ADonlan. He was Duvari’s contemporary; he, like Devon, was part of the Royal Trade Commission. Unlike Devon, he was not junior enough to be at the beck and call of the aging Patris Larkasir—but he had no desire to run the office. He handled specific routes between the Empire and the Dominion, and he handled them with a quiet, graceful competence; he spoke at least three languages, each of them so fluently the small mistakes translation could inspire were absent.

And none of that was important information at present.

No information about Maures was, or would be, relevant again—not in the same way. Where the magic cast by the magi—at the direction of the Lord of the Compact and the Mysterium—was colored and delicate, the nimbus that now surrounded Maures was not; it was thick and dark, like the black smoke that rose from burning flesh. She looked at him, nodded coolly, and turned to Duvari, wishing for one long moment that she still cradled the cuttings of her precious trees in her arms. They would form a shield between her and what was left of Maures ADonlan. Where he walked, the strands she thought of as evidence of magic seemed to bend or twist to avoid his touch.

They did not avoid Duvari in the same way. It was the only relief she felt, and there wasn’t enough of it.

“What,” Duvari asked, “have you done in the Courtyard gardens?”

“At the request of the Master Gardener—the repeated, public request—I brought cuttings culled—with permission—from the Terafin grounds to the Courtyard. I worked with both permission and supervision. I have done nothing against any protocols.”

“Do not,” Maures said, “play games.”

Birgide raised both brows; she had never quite learned the art of lifting only one. “I am unaccustomed to games,” she replied. “I am a botanist. I have little—very little—to do with politics of any stripe; my concerns, when I pursue research or studies within
Avantari
, are entirely the rules and protocols of the
Master Gardener
. If I have offended in some way—and apparently, I have—the people with whom you must raise your concerns are the gardening staff.” She had stiffened, shifting position; this, given the chill in her tone, would not be remarkable.

But she listened. She listened to Maures’ voice. It was deep and rich and multi-layered—as unlike her own voice to her ears as the music she plucked from translucent, magical strands. Duvari’s was also thin and unremarkable.

Maures glanced at the Lord of the Compact; Duvari was impassive. He demanded no further explanation, but he did not attempt to leash his companion.

“The
Master Gardener
,” Maures said, “did not cause trees to magically reach their full height in a matter of minutes. This has occurred in no other lands but the estates Terafin controls—and you have come from the Terafin estates. I ask again, explain yourself.”

“I have tendered all of the explanation I can. You are not, that I recall, Lord of the Compact; if I am to answer to anyone for this, it is he.”

“Then answer,” Maures said.

“Maures.”

The man subsided. He did not do so with any grace; Birgide thought he was genuinely enraged. It gave her a measure of confidence; nothing else, at the moment, did. She shifted her stance again.

“Birgide.” Duvari turned his attention to her. “Please answer the question.”

“I came with cuttings, as I have said, from the Terafin grounds.”

“You have been given leeway to do research there that even the Order of Knowledge has been denied.”

“I have The Terafin’s permission, yes. It is, of course, dependent upon the Master Gardener of Terafin; I have not been given carte blanche—there or here—to proceed entirely at my own whim. The grounds at the back of the manse appear to be unstable; they are certainly remarkable in ways that simple magery cannot explain.” As Duvari opened his mouth, she continued, her voice even, her expression neutral. “There are trees of silver, of gold, and of diamond. They shed leaves that are, in shape, appropriate for trees—but they are not, in any sense of the word, organic.”

“And such trees could not be grown or created by magic?”

“I think the Artisans might be able to create one of each, with time and effort. But a small forest? No. I chose to approach House Terafin because rumors reached me of the
Ellariannatte
—but they are the least of the wonders that are to be found there.” She could not keep the smile off her lips as she spoke; nor did she try.

“The least?” Maures said. Birgide would not have dared, not when Duvari was so close and had—in his quiet way—made his position clear. “We have been concerned,” he continued, when Duvari remained silent, “about Terafin and its interference. The Terafin has clearly already caused damage within
Avantari
, the extent of which remains little known only through strict vigilance on our part.”

What, Birgide thought, had Haval said? What exactly?

“She is dangerous,” Maures said to Duvari, before he continued his angry lecture. “And you have brought some part of The Terafin’s workings with you into
Avantari
.”