Oracle: The House War: Book Six (62 page)

“I—”

“They are concepts created by mortals for mortals. Mortality encompasses the god-born and the talent-born, but there are, with rare exceptions, limits to the power. The demons, of course, confound that expectation—and yet, they have been contained; they have not been more of a danger than the rogue magi themselves.

“Until now. Now, Birgide, things wake which were never part of your calculations of either decency or power. You have played the games that the
Astari
play. You have observed the games that patricians play. You have seen war, you have seen death, you have caused it. But the scale was—and is—mortal. Human. You have not played the games we played at the dawn of your world.”

Silence. She glanced at the Exalted. They were uniformly grim. None of this was a surprise to them.

“My sons were afraid that you presaged the ending that was once foreseen. Let me set their worries at rest. You are not the herald of the end of days. You are merely a symptom.

“And you are a surprising symptom. You are not of the wilderness. The wild is not your breath, blood, and bone. You cannot speak to the high wilderness and be understood—it must stoop to listen; it must stoop to translate, encasing the whole of its meaning in a way that you can—if you struggle—barely comprehend. We do not understand why you were chosen.

“Do you?”

Birgide frowned.

“Do not fear my wrath. There is little you could say that I would find insulting; to insult, there must be intent.”

She glanced at the Exalted of Cormaris; his lips compressed. Clearly he did not agree with his father on matters of etiquette—and it was the Exalted who would be coming back to the world with her, not the god.

“It is possible,” she said, choosing words with care, “that I was chosen because I had The Terafin’s permission to enter her forests and tend to her gardens—either of them. And possibly because of what the forest itself—as a concept—meant, and means, to me. But if I had to offer a rational guess, I would say that I was chosen because the Immortals you seemed to expect aren’t here now.

“Except for the demons, and I don’t think—”

“The dead cannot serve the living forest,” the god told her. “And in any meaningful sense, the
Kialli
and their servants are dead.”

“Yes, but they’re here. And standing against them, we have mortals, mortals, and more mortals. The Terafin herself is not immortal. She is not god-born.”

“She is Sen,” Cormaris replied. “And the Sen, like the Artisans, exist very tenuously in your world. They are human, but mortality fits them poorly, and in the end—” He shook his head. “To my sons, I will say only one thing: the Sen did not rule the great Cities of Man. They founded them, but they did not rule. They could not remain in the world the living occupied as a matter of course without altering it irrevocably.

“Your Terafin charts a course the Sen would never have charted. She is determined to remain true to what she perceives herself to be. But that perception, in our experience, is faulty. The world will break, Birgide. Lines will fracture. Things will seep into your mortal cities that have not walked the face of the world since the sundering.

“I have delivered this message to my sons and daughters. I deliver it now to you. You are the first sentinel. If things change, return to me.”

“Can you not tell us, now, what to expect?”

“No. I can tell you what we experienced—but it would take years upon years, even here, and I do not think you would gain useful information from the telling. There is a mage in your city, a Meralonne APhaniel.”

“He is, at the moment, resident within the Terafin manse.”

“He has walked the loneliest of roads. Do not trust him.”

“He is the House Mage.”

“He is, perhaps, the House Mage—but not for much longer. Do not trust him, Birgide. Do not allow him to speak with the trees at the heart of your forest.”

“He has been granted the same permission I have,” she began.

“No, he has not. If you mean The Terafin’s grant of passage, you do not understand the role you have taken. You are Warden. He is Prince. There is only one place you could hope to stand against him, and you will not be able to stand against him for long.”

“Why do you assume that I’ll have to stand against him at all?”

“We have had word: the heralds are on the move.”

This meant nothing to Birgide.

It meant something to the Exalted. “It is too soon,” the Mother’s Daughter said. “We are not prepared.”

“No. But were they to arrive a century from now, my children, you would not be prepared. The only hope you have—in our opinion—rests upon the shoulders of your Sen—and she is too new, and too timid to do what must be done.” The god bent to Birgide; she thought he meant to bow, and would have collapsed to the supine position of absolute inferiority had she not feared the mists.

She was, however, mistaken.

“Our sister could not be present for this interview, but asked that we bestow a gift upon you, if we deemed you worthy of it. We do not know, yet, the full measure of your worth—but having seen you, we are both apprehensive and relieved. The Terafin is The Terafin. She is in control of her power; her power does not yet ride her. She chose to trust you. You have chosen, in your fashion, to honor that trust. The heart of the forest understands both of these things.

“We therefore give you the gifts one gives a gardener. We cannot tell you which of the seeds will grow and flourish and which will fail to take root, nor can we tell you what the outcome of successful growth might be. The wilderness is not an Imperial garden, even so fine a garden as The Ten are reputed to keep. There is a sentience to the sleeping earth, the gentle breeze, and the towering trees that the plants in your city have never—and will never—achieve. And yet you labor over them regardless.”

“Without them, we face starvation.”

“Starvation is not a concept the Immortal come to easily,” he replied. “The Mother understands it fully in a way few of her brethren do. These seeds are from her many, many gardens; they grow nowhere in the world to which you were born. Take the Mother’s gift or reject it; the decision is yours. She will take no offense should you decide to leave them with us.”

“And what does the Lord of Wisdom counsel?” she asked softly—as softly as she might have asked a similar question of the Lord of the Compact.

“Be true to your vows as you understand them. There are many responsibilities and many oaths sworn in a mortal lifetime—and the oaths are binding only inasmuch as the oathgiver desires. But there will come a time—and soon—when one who can oathbind will enter the world of men. You will see deaths then. Mortality is small, Birgide, in its passions and drives. Mortals do not focus on one thing above all others.

“The Arianni are defined by their Winter Queen. No other love, no other loyalty, is proof against that definition. Mortals, however, are torn, always: they love their families, their friends; they are responsible for their work, where work is available. They feel, on occasion, responsible for their neighbors, their pets, and their horses. They do not, and cannot, choose one thing with any ease.

“But now, you have so chosen. The oath that you gave was not given to mortals, who might view your circumstances with compassion or forgiveness. Serve as Warden, but understand if you wish to survive that no oath has the weight or the meaning of the oath you have offered your forest. Do not look to the Kings and falter. Do not look to the Lord of the Compact and falter.

“The gift you have been granted is, for the moment, singular: the Kings will not find another like you. But it is hopeful as well. If you are too small and too weak in the end to bear burdens such as these for long, you are also mortal; you are only required to bear them until you dwindle into age and death.”

Birgide listened impassively, understanding that she spoke with a god. Or that she listened to one. When he was done—when the multitude of voices had once again settled into silence, she held out one hand. The scarred hand.

Even here, in the mists of the Between, she could see that the scar was large and deep; it was also golden, as if the metal had pooled, forever, in her palm. Light eddied off the surface of her skin.

The god looked at her empty, exposed hand for a long moment, and then he exhaled. There was thunder in his breath and across his brow, and she saw, for a moment, the flicker and tightening of a thousand mouths, superimposed one over the other.

Into that hand, he placed not seeds but a basket; the basket was workaday, the workmanship of twined, shaved wood very much what one would see in the Common. It was, however, smaller and lighter. “Understand the ground you now walk upon, and stand your ground there. When The Terafin returns—”

“Will she?” Birgide asked, ignoring the pinched expression that briefly crossed the face of the god’s son.

“If she does not, there will be no ground to stand upon,” was his reply. “There is no certainty. The desire for certainty drives us all—but it is a chimera. We prepare to fight the battles we can foresee; we think, we work, we plan. But The Terafin was no part of those early contingencies, and I see, in the hand of Gilafas ADelios, that those plans must be revisited.

“Remind my sons again, as I have reminded you: the Cities of Man were not ruled by the Sen, although they were built by them.” He frowned. “You are not a scholar of history, I see.”

“Even were she,” the Mother’s Daughter said, “the Cities of Man are some part of history that has been lost to us—at the discretion of the gods.” She hesitated and then said, “Will the Sleepers wake before The Terafin returns?”

Birgide turned, then, to stare at this scion of god and mortal. She had, of course, heard the phrase “when the Sleepers wake” many, many times in her life; she had used it some handful herself. But it was clear to her that the Mother’s Daughter did not intend the phrase to mean what it had meant to Birgide. Not “never.”

Both the Exalted of Reymaris and Cormaris turned to stare at the Mother’s Daughter. She might have asked the god about his sex life to lesser consternation. Birgide could not demand explanation about the Sleepers from anyone present. Not even the god. So she did what she did at gatherings of the political and the powerful: she listened.

“That cannot yet be determined,” was the quiet reply; the voices had hushed, although they were audibly present. “We have hope, daughter of my sister. Teos has sent his children into the streets; he has sent the one or two who can travel to the edges of the dreaming. There are those within your city now who might stand, for some small time, against the firstborn princes—but it would be best for everyone who cannot if such a confrontation never occurred.

“Where our children can, they attempt to mislead and misdirect the heralds.” He gazed at Birgide again. “In my opinion, it is folly.”

“Who can stand against the Sleepers?” Birgide now asked. It was perhaps the only question that seemed relevant. She didn’t ask who or what they were.

“One, you have met: Meralonne APhaniel, whom we call Illaraphaniel, in the old style. But he is not a match for the three.”

“The other?”

“It has no name. It has no known form, or all forms. We called it, in the Old Weston style,
namann
. We did not know that it was resident in your city until the
Kialli
attacked your Merchants’ Guild. One of the magi present was a son of Teos, and what he saw, Teos saw. And now, we know. There is danger in its presence.

“Look for
namann
, but search with care.”

“It was seen at the Merchants’ Guild?”

“Yes. In the company—at least briefly—of Jarven ATerafin and Hectore of Araven. We must release you to the world you have left, but I have taken none of your time. Go, with our blessings.”

J
EWEL HUDDLED BY THE side of a rounded indentation in the ground, a shallow rock pit that seemed—or so Terrick claimed—to have been created for just that purpose. The decision to build the fire had been hers, and it had been arrived at with a great deal of angst and anxiety not usually reserved for fire itself.

“The wood is dead,” Shianne said. “It is silent. The forest will take no offense at either the gathering or the burning.” She glanced at Terrick and added, “but take care. Do not take your fine, fine ax to the wrong tree, even here. The forest has a long memory.”

“Living trees do not make good firewood,” Terrick replied somewhat stiffly. “They are too damp, and we do not have the time to let them dry on their own.”

Shianne laughed. Terrick reddened further, which Jewel tactfully put down to the wind here, which was ferocious.

They had exited the arch she had chosen. She had stepped onto the carefully cut, flawless stone path. So had everyone else. But the small road ended abruptly a mile or two away from the ancient halls. It was impossible to judge, because the halls themselves had vanished the moment they had cleared the arch. They were stranded in the middle of trees, trees, snow, and more trees.

Terrick had found a wide stream—he disdained to call it a river. Although Jewel was nominally in charge, she surrendered the lead to the Northerner. Avandar placed himself in the rear, although it was highly unlikely that predators could approach without being noted by the flying guard of winged cats. The cats had joined the party, careening wildly overhead.

And bragging. Loudly.

Hours had turned them into voluble,
bored
, winged cats.

The reverse was also true: they could not fail to be noted by anything that was paying even trivial attention.

Angel went with Terrick, who teased him about his soft life in the South; clearly the cold of this winter landscape reminded Terrick of youth and vigor, not freezing to death in the streets of the hundred holdings. Adam, however, remained with Jewel and Shianne. His initial wonder at the snowscape and the white, white forest gave way, quickly, to the cold.

“I forget,” he said, in quiet Torra, “that endless snow is like endless sand. They are both deserts.”

He was quietly helpful whenever he approached Shianne; he was far less tongue-tied than anyone else, except for Celleriant, whose reluctance to speak was far harsher. The Winter King was absent; he had gone to scout ahead on the nonexistent road. He was, as Celleriant, restless and ill at ease; the cold reminded them of the lives they had once led.

Lives that meeting Jewel had irrevocably destroyed. She was aware of it more keenly than she had been anywhere but the Stone Deepings.

Shadow landed. He didn’t appear to leave paw prints in otherwise pristine snow as he padded his way across some of it.

“Don’t be
stupid
.”

She had not voiced the thought aloud, but was not surprised to have it criticized anyway. “We’re
bored
,” he added, and dropped his head in her lap.

“It hasn’t even been a day, Shadow.”

“It’s been a
boring
day.”

“You got to play with a child of the gods.”

He hissed.

“We’ve got nothing here that even comes close. I’m sorry.”

“We’ve been bored
forever
.” He batted her hands with the top of his head, and she settled into scratching behind his ears; he was warm. He was warm the way the Winter King was warm.

“Where is Kallandras?”

Snort. “Who
cares?
”

“Obviously I do, or I wouldn’t have asked. Is he at least with Celleriant?”

Shadow mumbled. Jewel took this as a yes.

“I don’t want anything bad to happen to them.”

“You don’t want anything
interesting
to happen to
anyone
.”

Shianne, seated across from Jewel on the other side of what would, with luck, become a fire, laughed again. Her voice was deep, but it was clear and high; Jewel loved her laughter. So, too, did Adam; he gravitated toward it.

“She is doing it on
purpose
, stupid girl.”

“I don’t much care,” Jewel replied.

“You
should
.”

“Why? I’m going to help her, anyway. She’s pregnant. If she’s using some sort of magic to make herself astonishingly beautiful in order to encourage me—all of us—to be happy about what we’re going to do anyway, where’s the harm in that?”

“I believe he is concerned that I will bespell you and you will do, in my name, things you would never otherwise consider.”

“There’s probably not a lot I haven’t considered. I’m in the middle of an endless tract of forest in the snow in the middle of nowhere, with no obvious way out, and no clear idea of where I’m supposed to be going.”

But Shianne shook her head. She had rested her arms around the curve of her belly as if the child she carried within was the only thing that mattered. “You know where you are supposed to go, Jewel. But I think you know, as well, where you should not. You have not yet decided—and because you have not, we are here.”

“And when I do decide?”

“It is still hard to carve a path through the wilderness, but it is my belief we will find one. I find it cold,” she added.

Jewel attempted to shove Shadow’s head off her lap. “Go sit with her,” she whispered.

The cat hissed. “People have babies
all the time
, stupid girl.”

“Yes. And a lot of the time, it kills them. I don’t want her to freeze to death on my watch.”

Shadow lifted his head and roared.

One white cat came crashing—literally—through the tree cover above, dumping snow and dry branches across the landscape. “What?
Whaaaaat?
” Snow growled at his brother.

Shadow once again dropped his head into Jewel’s lap. “She wants
you
to
sit
with Shianne.”

Shianne smiled, shaking her head; platinum framed her perfect face. “She is afraid that I suffer the cold in a way that you and your brothers do not.”

“Of
course
you do.”

“And she wishes you to lend me some of your warmth.”

Snow hissed.

“I want you to
sit with her
,” Jewel added. “I have no idea what you think she meant, but that’s what
I
meant.”

“Oh.” Snow sauntered across the landscape, taking swipes at fallen branches and buried leaves. His feet, unlike Shadow’s, made a mess. He didn’t, however, drop his head in Shianne’s lap; Jewel thought that not even the cats could be so bold or so casual with this woman.

Mortal or no, something about her made the idea uncomfortable—at best. He did, however, curl around her in such a way that she could lean into his side if she so chose. Her eyes widened slightly. “I repent,” she said to Jewel.

“Of what?”

“Every uncharitable thought I have had about your governance of the ancient. Your Snow
is
warm.”

“He’s not,” Shadow said. “It’s just that
you
are
cold.”

“
Oh, hush,” Jewel told the great, gray cat. “I’m cold and you don’t complain about that.”

“I complain about your cold
feet
,” he replied, sniffing. “But you’re asleep, then.”

Shianne stilled. “You guard her dreams, Elder?”

“Yessssssss?”

“And not you?” she asked Snow.

Snow growled. “Her dreams are as boring as
she
is. Do
you
dream?”

“I do not know. I have not slept as mortals sleep, and had I done so in the great hall, my dreaming self would be unassailable. I do not believe that even the Warden of Dreams could have found me or my sisters were he to bend all of his considerable will upon the search.”

“You are
not
in your hall
now
,” Snow pointed out.

“No. I am curious. I have some power, still. I was told that I would not. But the cold is less pleasant than it once was, and even the air itself is . . . stinging. I do not particularly fear death,” she added. Her voice was so soft it almost invited sleep. “But I do not wish to face it until this child is born and safe.”

Safety was illusion. Jewel knew it. She suspected Shianne knew it as well.

“Even time seems different, somehow.”

“Does it? I’ve never had personal experience with anything but mortality, so I can’t compare.”

“Do you fear age?” Shianne asked. Snow hissed laughter.

“Not yet. I imagine I will as I get older.” Jewel glanced at Adam; he was, to her surprise, watching her, not Shianne.

“Because of the infirmity?”

“Yes. No one wants to be weak. No one wants to watch the slow diminishing of the strengths they once had. We accept it because we don’t have much choice.”

“Not
all
mortals are so
accepting
.”

“Yes, well.”

“Some mortals seek immortality?”

Something about the tone of the question made Jewel tense. But she answered. “Some of our oldest—and goriest—stories involve men who were desperate to unlock the secret of eternal life. They believed that it could be had in exchange for any number of things.”

“What things?”

In Torra, Adam said, “The sacrifice of other lives. Some believed every year of life they destroyed they could somehow consume. It didn’t work. The sacrifice of precious stones, of precious plants or very rare animals. The drinking of blood. And, of course, the bargains with demons.”

“You speak of demons, as does your Matriarch.”

“Yes.”

“Tell me what these demons are.”

Silence. Shadow hissed his laughter, which joined Snow’s. And then, without warning, Shadow lifted his head and roared. It was a long, loud sound that shook branches. It shook more. He continued this for minutes, during which Jewel covered her ears.

Shianne, already pale, paled further as she listened; her arms tightened, her lips became, for the moment, the color of the rest of her skin, as if somewhere, she was bleeding out the remainder of the life her choice had left her. Jewel rose before Shadow had finished, reached the Arianni woman as the great, gray cat drew breath, and caught both of her hands in her own.

“I understand,” Shianne whispered. She closed her eyes. “I understand the White Lady’s endless rage and sorrow. You cannot know the harm—the eternal, endless harm—done to her. And these demons, as you call them, can grant this immortality?”

“Oh, no. Of course not,” Jewel said—in the same Torra in which Adam had spoken. “I think that once, gods could—when they walked this world. Speak to Avandar, if he is willing to converse, and ask him about eternity before you think—in any way—that it is a gift for my people.”

“I am not your people,” Shianne replied.

“No. And perhaps, for you, it would not be the burden it is to Avandar. I cannot say. I can only say this: he was born when the gods walked the world, and the only thing he desires of the gods—of anything now—is death. His own,” she added.

“And not even the firstborn can grant it,” a familiar voice said.

Jewel closed her eyes briefly; she then stood, releasing Shianne’s hands. Shadow was already on his feet, and his fur had risen at least an inch as a very familiar woman entered the clearing that surrounded the stone pit. “Calliastra.”

“The same. I once thought Viandaran could give me what I needed, but he could not.”

“No.”

“Is it not a mistake you would have made?”

“I don’t need what you need,” Jewel replied. “But I need things that are probably just as painful when denied.”

“The needs of mortals were never as pressing, although they were oft more immediate.” She smiled as she spoke; it was both exquisite and unpleasant. She glanced at Shianne. “The Lady has condescended to entertain the Elders. For simple warmth. It is quaint.”

“
We
have
condescended
,” Snow corrected her. He did not move, although his fur had also risen. As had his wings. Their ridges were high. Jewel had once seen him break a man’s arm with the downstroke of those wings.

“You did not win that fight,” Calliastra said, eyes narrowing. “You
fled
it.”

“You were
boring
,” Snow growled back. His wings rose higher. Adam quietly came to Shianne’s side, and as the cat shifted position, led her away; he did not go far. Shianne did not seem alarmed—nor did she seem particularly offended. But she slid an arm around Adam’s shoulder and her hand tightened enough to cause a shift in Adam’s expression. He was, however, watchful.

“I would counsel you against continuing your fight.” Celleriant had returned. He stood between Jewel and Calliastra, his blade and shield facing the firstborn. “What the ancient halls contained, the forests will not.”

“They are noisy enough to wake the dead,” Calliastra said, still glaring at Snow.

“The dead would not be a concern. But other things sleep in the wilderness, and not all will be grateful to be awakened.”

“I am not afraid of waking even the earth itself,” Calliastra snapped.

Of course she wasn’t. She wasn’t afraid of anything. And she made it as clear as Duster once had. “It’s not for you he’s worried,” Jewel said quietly. “It’s for me. What you can survive, I can’t.”

Calliastra’s eyes couldn’t narrow further without closing; her hands could ball into tighter fists, and did. “Do not seek to humor me. You have survived greater threats—I witnessed one. You have found ways to stand your ground on ground that is not, in theory, your own. There is no threat that would instantly cause your death.”

It had been so long, Jewel thought, since she’d lived with Duster. And both she and Duster had, themselves, been young. Young, raw, and lacking in experience. “You’re right. I’m unlikely to die. But as it’s not my death I fear, it doesn’t matter. There are people here who are far less likely to survive rampaging, angry dragons than I am. I have Lord Celleriant. I have the Winter King. I have Avandar.

“And I have the talent I was born with. They don’t. If you need to set violent ground rules with the cats, you need to do it somewhere else. I’m sure they’d be fine with that.”