Oracle: The House War: Book Six (60 page)

Birgide, however, knelt. She was the only person in the chamber to do so; Gilafas’ aide had retreated to the wall closest to the door. Had the doors been open, she would have departed to wait outside.

Nor did the Exalted or the Kings tell her to rise.

“Birgide Viranyi, of the Order of Knowledge,” the Mother’s Daughter said. “You ventured into the Courtyard gardens this afternoon with cuttings taken from the Terafin
Ellariannatte
.”

Birgide, on one knee, lifted her chin and nodded.

“You planted them.”

“In the wildwood quarter of the Courtyard gardens, yes. I have standing royal permission to attempt to cultivate the
Ellariannatte
in the gardens and grounds.”

“So we have been informed. You have made the attempt some fifteen times, at irregular intervals, over the past decade.”

“I have.”

“This is the first time you have had any notable success.”

Birgide nodded. She did not glance at Duvari; his expression was dour, but it gave nothing away. She could almost believe that he wished to censure her, or to see her censured—but no. He feared what the presence of the
Ellariannatte
presaged—but he was pragmatic enough to consider the demons the greater threat.

“Do you understand why you have had such remarkable success today?”

Birgide exhaled. The layer of carpet between hard stone and bent knee did not make kneeling notably more comfortable. She could not, however, rise without permission or command. “Yes.”

This surprised the Mother’s Daughter. “You will explain it.”

“I am groundskeeper for The Terafin’s forest, the boundaries of which cannot be circumscribed by simple surveys—or complex ones. It is my belief that the forest itself extends across the whole of Averalaan. The trees that grow in the back of the Terafin manse might be planted successfully anywhere the forest touches.”

“That is an interesting supposition. Guildmaster Mellifas?”

“You are aware, of course, that The Terafin has not given the Order of Knowledge permission to study the forest of which Member Viranyi now speaks. If you wish my comprehensive opinion, the Order of Knowledge must be granted that permission. If you wish my considered opinion, I concur.”

“You have reservations, Guildmaster?”

“Where unknown magics are concerned? Of course I have. I am however, more interested in the reason for the guildmaster’s presence. Guildmaster ADelios?”

The guildmaster was staring out the window. Or rather, staring at the window; from this vantage, out should have been rendered almost invisible by thick colored glass. Sigurne and the Mother’s Daughter exchanged a glance.

King Cormalyn answered the question, since it was clear Gilafas would offer none. “The guildmaster arrived shortly after Member Viranyi did. He referenced the trees.” The King glanced briefly at the man to his right. “Ah. He said, ‘The trees, the trees, I must see the trees.’ He demanded immediate access, and if immediate access was not to be granted, an immediate audience with the Kings.”

Birgide was seldom shocked. Seldom, clearly, was not never. She could not keep her glance from straying to Duvari’s face, just to catch a glimpse of his expression, although she knew her own would betray nothing.

Duvari’s eyes were narrowed as he stared at Gilafas ADelios. The Kings, however, motioned him to silence, and he obeyed.

“We have therefore granted the audience,” King Cormalyn continued. “We wish to ascertain that it is safe for the guildmaster to, as he requested, see the trees.” As he spoke the last words, he turned to Birgide, who had remained upon knee. “Rise.”

She did so with the fluid grace developed by training. Turning to the Guildmaster of the Makers, she asked, “What, exactly, do you intend to do?”

He did not appear to hear her question.

Sigurne Mellifas caught his elbow in one hand and his shoulder in the other; she guided him away from the windows and toward Birgide Viranyi. This was not, clearly, what Duvari had envisaged for the afternoon. Birgide herself was not entirely certain this was preferable. But she tendered Gilafas the bow his station—and wealth—all but demanded, even though she was certain he wouldn’t actually see it.

He didn’t. He did, however, see Birgide. “How very odd,” he said, pulling himself free from Sigurne’s steadying grip. He approached Birgide as if she were a sculpture. “Very odd.” He turned to King Cormalyn and said, “Did you send the poor girl from your side to serve The Terafin?”

Birgide’s glance, when it fell to Duvari again, was far less casual.

Duvari’s, however, was not. “What,” he asked, voice deceptively soft, “do you mean, Guildmaster?”

“She has come with the trees,” Gilafas replied. “And it is for her they will grow and flourish. I seek leaves and branches with which to make a floral crown. I will work in
Avantari
if the Kings prefer it, but I believe I will do better work in Fabril’s reach.”

“Did you arrive here from Fabril’s reach?”

“Of course.”

Birgide had made the acquaintance of the guildmaster only twice in her life; she did not recognize this scattered, strange man at all. So, she thought; rumors of the madness of the maker-born were not simple, or petty, malice. Birgide, who felt protective of the forest and its many, many trees felt no fear of this man at all. “I am sorry,” she told the guildmaster, “but I am unaware of the significance of Fabril’s reach in this context.”

“And so shall you remain if you do not wish to stand here for four hours listening to words that make no sense whatsoever,” the Exalted of Cormaris cut in. “Suffice it to say that the guildmaster has probably sent the magi scurrying about the palace in near-panic, and leave it at that.” His gaze, golden, was Summer and light in Birgide’s vision. She could not help but smile.

Joy was not consistent across the
Astari;
Duvari’s face resembled frozen stone at the end of this brief speech. He watched the Exalted, his gaze cutting between them, as if waiting for more.

“If you wish it,” Birgide said, “and if I am granted permission, I will take you to the trees. They are new,” she added. “And when you arrived, they had not yet been planted.”

Gilafas frowned, as if attempting to understand a language with which he had only passing familiarity.

“We will allow this,” King Reymalyn said.

The Exalted of Reymaris stood. “I am uncertain of the wisdom of this action.”

“And as you are not the son of the Lord of Wisdom, accept that we are King, here, and we have made the choice. Lord of the Compact?”

“The choice is, of course, yours,” Duvari replied. “Allow us to inspect the Courtyard gardens first.”

The King nodded. Duvari turned on heel and strode—at speed—toward the closed doors; they opened before he reached them.

 • • • 

“Birgide Viranyi,” the Mother’s Daughter said, the moment the doors had closed.

Birgide inclined her head. “Exalted.”

“You have chosen to serve The Terafin.”

“I have chosen to accept employ as a gardener upon the Terafin staff.”

“So.” The Mother’s Daughter turned to confer with the son of Cormaris and the son of Reymaris, their voices muted although they sat not ten feet away. The private discussion was long enough that Duvari had returned by the time they once again turned their attention upon Birgide.

“Do you work under the auspices of Meralonne APhaniel?”

“No. I report to the Terafin Master Gardener.”

They once again spoke amongst themselves. At length, the Mother’s Daughter stood. “You are not what was expected,” she said. “We will attend with the Kings and the Guildmaster of the Order of Knowledge.”

“May I be bold enough to ask what
was
expected?”

“A herald,” the Exalted of Cormaris replied, his voice crisp and on the chilly side. “Or a squire.”

 • • • 

It was difficult to speak in the hall itself, and only in part because of the presence of the most important men and women in the Empire. Gilafas appeared to be humming; the humming stopped only when he thought of something to say. He did not speak with any particular dignity; had he been among makers, his conversation—a mixture of the autocratic and the delighted—would have been cause for amusement, not concern.

He was, however, in the company of Kings. As the Kings chose to take no offense—and offense at this point could be taken with ease—no one else could. The
Astari
, however, looked pinched and annoyed, to Birgide’s eye.

The Swords, however, did not appear to consider Gilafas’ behavior a reflection on the Kings’ dignity; they considered him harmless. If he was not, he was harmful in an entirely political way—and politics was not the duty of the Kings’ Swords. They formed up around the Kings; Birgide thought they resembled a human turtle.

The presence of the Kings—indicated by the standard which was carried at the rear—meant the checkpoints discreetly vanished; there was nothing between the moving body of Swords and the exit into the Courtyard gardens. Nothing but yards of stone over which tapestries and paintings had been hung. The runners that protected the floor from heavy feet were a coal black, thickly edged in white and fringed in gold. Thus did
Avantari
pay respects for the merchants who had been lost to the demons in the guildhall. The full tally had not yet been made; work continued, and would continue, until the magi were satisfied that all answers had been extracted from the guildhall’s ruins.

 • • • 

Gilafas ADelios was a man possessed. It was a happy possession, and as the
Ellariannatte
came into view—which occurred the moment the party set foot upon the least ornate of the garden pathways—his eyes crinkled at the corners; every line sun, wind, and age had carved there was put to use, and yet the effect lessened, rather than added, years.

Birgide was surprised when he turned to her and offered her the deepest and most reverent of bows. The unexpected show of respect reminded her, conversely, of the dirt beneath her nails and the coarseness of her clothing. But she was now in her element, Kings and the god-born and the Lord of the Compact notwithstanding.

“Welcome,” she said, as she offered the guildmaster her arm. “To the Courtyard gardens.”

Above her head she could hear the rustle of leaves—all of the leaves of the Terafin forest: sounds of crystal, metallic wind chimes, and, yes, leaf in high breeze. She lifted her face, as Gilafas lifted his, and leaves fell, pulled in desultory dance toward the ground. They landed at the maker’s feet.

Not Birgide’s. She heard breath stop as the leaves fell, but was not surprised to see them settle: gold, silver, diamond—and crowning them in delicate life,
Ellariannatte
.

She exhaled and turned to the maker, who stood, staring at his feet, which were surrounded. Birgide had never seen so many leaves fall at once; she had, in truth, never seen unattached leaves of silver, gold, or diamond; those had shied away from her hands, as if the trees were sentient.

None of those trees grew in the Courtyard; none graced
Avantari
. And yet, here, at the feet of a maker, their leaves assembled.

She could see the shadows of tall trees across the footpath, but nothing to cast them. The footpath, in any case, was in disarray.

“This is acceptable to you?” Gilafas asked.

He did not, directly, speak to Birgide, but she understood that the older man was asking—with humility—for permission. And she understood, as he watched her, that it was her permission to give. It was an odd feeling.

“Yes,” she told him softly. “Do you know what you will make of them?”

He stared at her as if she had, once again, begun speaking in a foreign tongue. And then he gathered the leaves. He had come with an empty satchel; he filled it. His aide attempted to offer help, but he shooed her away without seeming to see her.

Birgide offered a sympathetic glance; the woman shrugged in response, shaking her head at Gilafas as if he were a much-loved, and much-coddled child.

“I will return to you,” Gilafas surprised her by saying. “But I ask one favor, if I may ask it.”

Birgide waited. She was long past the age where the desire to please drove her to agreements that were in the end impossible.

“Watch for butterflies. You will see them soon, I think. Do not harm them, do not capture them—but watch. And listen.”

The Guildmaster of the Guild of Makers then turned and pushed his way through the gathered dignitaries as if they were of no consequence. And, in truth, given his expression, they weren’t.

The Kings exchanged few words; the Exalted, more. Birgide felt as if she were in a bubble whose walls only she could see. Duvari joined her; she thought she preferred the bubble.

“That was astonishing,” he said, voice soft. “I have known the guildmaster for many years, and I have only once seen him driven by his talent. He is accustomed to decrying its power and strength.”

“You’ve seen him like this?”

“Never in such illustrious company; I am somewhat surprised that he ventured beyond Fabril’s reach. But, of course, he would. The materials he required could be gathered in no other way.”

“You’ve seen makers at work before.” It wasn’t a question. Birgide herself had not.

“I have seen Artisans at work,” was Duvari’s almost gentle correction. “I do not envy their minders; they are akin to the youngest of children; they walk, but they see nothing of the world in front of their eyes; they are caught and pulled by the drive to create. They can forget to eat, to bathe, to clothe themselves; they will work their hands raw to bleeding. Their talent creates priceless artifacts and treasures—but it consumes them.” He exhaled. “You wonder why I share this with you.”

Birgide nodded.

“If I am not mistaken, he will come to you again. He will walk in the forest you guard and nurture. There is only one thing—beyond the maker-born urge—that moves his weathered heart. I will not speak of it further except to say this: if you encounter the butterflies of which he so artlessly asked, you will report—directly—to me. If,” he added softly, “you are allowed to return to Terafin at all. The Exalted are unhappy.”