Oracle: The House War: Book Six (71 page)

“Decades that your comrades have not spent.”

“No. Where rejected, they reject—or destroy. The earth, of course, cannot be destroyed; it can be subjugated.”

“Not easily.”

“Of course not. But where things come easily, they are not, in the end, of value. Not to you, Warlord. Nor to me. I can pass above the restless earth; I can silence my voice and my presence. But I cannot fight with any power. Nor can my kin—but they are likely to survive the waking earth. Some of you will not.” He froze as a roar once again broke the stillness of sky above.

This roar was higher; it didn’t sound like a force of nature; it contained too many syllables.

A name, Jewel thought. And she recognized it.

Isladar’s smile deepened, sharpened. “They have seen her. I do not know your intent in this, Terafin—but you chose well. We are
Kialli
. We remember.”

Above them, in the air, Shianne replied. She spoke, as the first voice had, and there was as much pain, as much surprise, in the names she called.

“But memory, in the end, is not as visceral as experience. Knowledge at a distance is a dull shock, a dull pain, in comparison.” His smile deepened. “You cannot feel what they feel.”

“No. I can . . . hear it.”

“It is not the same. This, Terafin, is what we have become; it is one of the few pleasures left to those who must mind and tend the Hells. Even the pain of our own kin feeds us. Remember this.”

“Isladar?”

“We must run,” he replied.

“Would she recognize you?”

“After this day,” he said, “I do not think she will recognize any of the kin should you encounter them again. Our choice—such as it was—would be an unthinkable betrayal to her, and she is encountering that grief and that loss for the first time.”

“
We
told
her
,” Shadow growled.

“Yes, Eldest. But rumor, while painful, does not have the teeth of truth.”

 • • • 

Shadow would not leave.

“I need someone in the air. I need you to carry a message—and I need you to lead them to us when—and if—we find safe harbor.”

Shadow could converse—as most Immortals could—in any language known to man. Certainly in any language known to Jewel. He failed to understand the words, while simultaneously finding them insulting.

The Winter King quietly rejoined the group.
There is no fire in the direction you are heading; there are no demons.

Good. I need you to join the rest in the air.

You could force the cat to your will
, the great stag said, with only a trace of his usual disgust. He was—there was no other word for it—excited, somehow. Born mortal, he had become something other. Or perhaps that otherness had always existed at his core; Jewel didn’t know how a Winter King was chosen. She had never asked.

Nor did she ask now.
Yes,
she replied, rescuing the packs the Winter King so effortlessly carried.
I could. But it’s costly, and he’ll sulk for days. I don’t think we can afford that.

You do not want to suborn his will to yours.

She didn’t, but changed tactics.
You want to be there,
she told the Winter King.
And I need someone to be there. Go.

I cannot speak as your Shadow speaks.

You’re smart enough to make yourself understood. When we come to harbor—if there is one to be found—you’ll have to lead the others to where I am. There’s no one in the sky now who won’t be able to follow you.

And you?

We’re following the demon
, she replied.
He doesn’t intend us harm.

He will not fight if harm presents itself.

For us? Probably not. But given anything else we’re likely to encounter, I’ll take the lack of intent. Go
.

The Winter King was not Shadow. He obeyed.

 • • • 

Jewel didn’t count steps. She had no idea how long she’d run—only that she had run, one heavy pack strapped to her back. Shadow hissed and growled when she’d saddled him, metaphorically, with the others. What was good enough for the Winter King was clearly very far beneath him.

“You could have joined your brothers,” she told him, while he tore new runnels in the ground. “But no—I had to send the Winter King.”

“And the Winter King obeyed you,” Isladar noted. “You have indeed traveled interesting paths since last we met.”

“Yes. And none of them managed to kill me, either.” She finished buckling a slender strap around Shadow’s underbelly, and rose. Isladar began, at once, to run. It wasn’t a sprint—he set a pace that Jewel could match. But as distance grew, the pace became punishing.

She listened as she ran, her breath escaping slightly open lips in a thin, pale stream. The earth’s rumble shifted, and after a long stretch, stilled.

But the creature roared again, and echoes of his voice remained beneath her feet when the voice itself fell silent.

She had seen what the earth could do. She had marveled at it. But she knew that earth, awake, here, would be deadly: the bard and Celleriant could not easily maintain their footing in an air made wilder by anger.

She turned to shout a warning to Kallandras and stopped. She wasn’t bard-born. If she could—somehow—make herself heard, she would be heard by all: her companions and the enemies who had erected a slender barrier of fire to trap her here. Had she been alone, she would have done it, regardless—but she wasn’t.

She had never wanted to be alone again. She’d built a life, with all its resultant compromises, that ensured that she wouldn’t be. And those compromises stung now. What she might survive—on instinct, on talent—Angel would not. Neither, she thought, would Terrick—although she felt a twinge of something that disagreed with that assessment. She didn’t question it. Didn’t evaluate it.

Avandar wouldn’t die. He was the only man here who would greet death with joy.

I would prefer the passage to be as painless as possible
, he replied, a hint of dry humor in the words.

I need Kallandras to speak—

No, Terafin. No, Jewel. He cannot safely do so from the air—if he can do so at all. His command of the one element is a gift of the ring he now wears—a ring that cannot be transferred or removed except at his death. If then.

I don’t need him to speak to the
earth
. I need him to sing to the serpent.

Ah. That, I can tell him.

She didn’t even ask how. She merely cursed herself for not speaking sooner. She had never ascertained the full range of Avandar’s capabilities—in part because she was certain he would hide most of them behind pretty—or angry—lies. She regretted it, now.

Isladar’s stride had widened; the pace he set went from uncomfortable to painful. Jewel sensed no pursuit; if demons were present, she thought their full attention must be, in the end, upon the serpent and Calliastra—her form, the full shadowed width and breadth of her wingspan, was visible in a way the serpent, strictly speaking, was not.

Shianne’s voice cut across all roaring—serpent or cat. It was as strong, as clear, as pure as Kallandras’ voice, when raised in bardic song.

It stopped even Isladar in his tracks; Jewel knew, because she ran into the stiff, hard line of his back.

Shadow hissed laughter. Jewel almost kicked him. She moved to the side to avoid contact with the demon lord, and saw, for a moment, his expression: the width of his eyes, and the slow way they closed; the stiffness of his arms and the shudder that took his hands before he curled them into fists.

She had never seen a demon in pain, before.

“No,” Isladar said quietly. “Our own pain does not feed us, except in one way.” His hands remained fists as he turned, again, to look at the height of the contested skies, where every voice but one, and one alone, fell silent. Not even the serpent roared, Shianne’s voice was so powerful.

Jewel couldn’t understand a word of the song itself. Not a syllable. And she was grateful for her ignorance, because tone alone conveyed too much. She didn’t cry in public, but regardless, tears escaped her eyes—nor did she attempt to brush them away, to deny them.

Because to deny them was to deny Shianne when she exposed a part of herself that Jewel would
never
have willingly exposed to any—not even her den.

She was surprised when voices joined Shianne’s. The first, she recognized instantly. Shadow. It would have been hard to miss, because he’d come to stand on her right foot. His singing voice resembled the voice one might expect from a yowling cat—at least in texture. But it managed, in spite of that, to contain actual notes.

Snow and Night joined him from on high.

And then, surrendering for a moment to the force of Shianne’s stark voice, Isladar smiled. It was a bitter expression that spoke of loss—but more, it spoke of resignation that had once again slipped away, revealing everything that could not be accepted: loss, death, consequence.

He sang.

He sang, and had they been running, it would have been Jewel who would have frozen midstep, as if running or walking—or even breathing—consumed too much will, too much thought.

She saw him—before she turned away—not as demon lord, not as
Kialli
. Nor did she see him as Arianni, although the resemblance was there. She saw him, instead, as ghost, the grief of past losses too overwhelming to be laid to rest.

And if this ghost was deadly—and he was, as were all of his kin—if he could destroy the living, in this one simple moment, that almost made sense. Grief could, and did, destroy the living if the living couldn’t somehow make peace with it.

But there was no peace to be made with this grief: it was too raw, too new, too fresh. It invoked loss in a way that even Lefty’s death had not. She felt slight, insignificant, almost invisible, as he joined voice to Shianne’s.

And he was not the only one. Although she could not see them, could not pin direction from the sound of their voices, they joined him: his kin, his brethren, the demons he meant to betray by leading her through this gauntlet of trap and death.

She wondered, then, as she would wonder in future, what love meant to demons. She had seen his hand in Kiriel, and it was dark and scarring. But she could not imagine pain such as this coming from that place. She could not imagine that Isladar could grieve—truly grieve—Kiriel’s loss; Kiriel was pawn or Queen in a game of complicated chess.

He would never sing for Kiriel as he sang, in this single moment, for Shianne. But he
could
sing thus; it was humbling. She bowed her head; she meant to give him privacy, the sense of awe was so large.

But she had no time for privacy, because she understood what this song—what this complicated, terrible outpouring was: a gift of time. She did not touch or approach Isladar; she did not speak to him. She signed to Angel, and Angel passed word to Terrick; she signed to Adam and he joined her. Avandar nodded.

They began to move.

Shadow slapped the demon lord with his right wing.

The humility, the grace, the respect that Isladar had offered Shadow was entirely absent as he turned in sudden rage, lifting an arm. To it came sword: red sword.

“You will
wake
the
earth
,” the cat growled. He did not seem particularly intimidated by either the weapon or the rage itself. For one long second, Jewel thought the earth no longer mattered to Isladar. The earth, his chosen mission, his game—all were dwarfed by the enormity of the experience and the memory that he had almost involuntarily chosen to honor.

But the sword wavered as Lord Isladar’s arm fell, once again, to the side; it was gone between one blink and the next. He retreated from a song that had not ended. “We are
Kialli
,” he said, his voice remote. “We remember. But we choose the memories that we honor in the end, and there are some to which we do not return.” He whispered her name, raising his face as if he could see hers, at this distance.

15th of Morel, 428 A.A.
Terafin Manse, Averalaan Aramarelas

‘‘I
NEED TO MEET WITH JARVEN.”

Jester’s brows bunched together over the bridge of a lightly freckle-dusted nose. He didn’t bother to lose the expression; he was speaking with Birgide. If the expression had hit his face—and it had—it had already been noticed. As Jester was famously lazy, he refused to put effort into what was already pointless.

Birgide, however, had become strange. In the past few days, he’d noted a shift in her personality. This took no effort; he was certain even those who paid passing attention would note the difference. She was not exactly open; she was neither welcoming nor friendly. But there was a difference in the wall of her face; a window had been constructed.

Or an arrow slit.

“Why do you need to meet with Jarven?” he asked, looking at the surface of his drink—which was receding rapidly.

“You don’t trust him.” Birgide’s reply was about as informative as Haval’s generally were.

“No.”

“Why?”

“Clearly you’ve never met the man.” And thinking of Haval, Jester rose. “What happened in
Avantari
?”

Birgide smiled. “I planted
Ellariannatte
in the Courtyard gardens, and they grew.”

“Tell me they didn’t grow the way the trees in our gardens did.”

“I have no idea how the trees in your garden were planted; I cannot say that with any certainty. They grew, however, as fast.”

“Do you want a drink?”

“No, thank you. I can drink, but dislike the taste of alcohol.”

“Must have made you great fun at parties.”

“It wasn’t a job requirement.”

Thinking of Duvari, Jester grimaced. “Given your boss, I’m not surprised. He probably chooses for lack of great fun. Or any fun.”

“Fun is not one of his criteria, no. On the other hand, he doesn’t require the obliteration of either charm or sense of humor. Where are you going?”

“It’s a conversation I’m going to have to repeat, and I don’t have your training. I’ll botch something.”

“Repeat?” Her expression cooled, but Jester couldn’t pinpoint the changes that gave him that impression.

“Yes. To Haval. If you feel you will be constrained by his presence, he is a simple tailor.”

She lifted a brow. “What position does he hold within Terafin?”

“He’s a tailor. You may have heard of him—but then again, maybe not. Being a tailor isn’t a front, as far as I can tell. And frankly, I can’t. But he’s known Jay for half her life. She trusts him.”

“You don’t?”

“I don’t trust anyone. I distrust Jarven.” He exhaled as he reached the great room’s closed door. “But you’d be hard-pressed to find anyone who would support Jay in the same way.”

“And me?”

“I trust you more now than I did two days ago.”

“I have not been dismissed from service.”

“You couldn’t have been.”

“Oh?”

“You’re demonstrably not dead.”

She did smile, then. “I am willing to speak in the presence of Haval.”

“You know something about him I don’t?”

“I know that he was allowed to find me in the forest.”

 • • • 

Haval was sewing when Jester interrupted him. He looked up. “Well?”

“She wants to talk to Jarven.” This pronouncement had no notable effect on the tailor’s demeanor.

“Why?”

“She hasn’t said.”

“What did she say?”

“That I didn’t trust him.”

“Ah.” Although the room was a sea of tailoring chaos, Haval himself was fastidious in the care with which he set aside his work. He was aproned, and did not choose to divest himself of that. “She is in the great room?”

Jester nodded.

“You are not, of course, telling me everything you know.”

“I’m not in the mood for tests today.”

“Or ever?”

“Or, generally, ever, yes. You’re nothing but a constant test—a battery of tests. If you feel the need to test someone, you can work on her.”

“You expect me to work with her.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Jester exhaled. “Because she’s the chosen guardian of the forest.”

“Chosen?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Of course it is.” Haval waited, his posture perfect and almost without character.

Jester hadn’t lied; he was not in the mood for tests. “I’m to lunch with Marrick today, if you recall.”

The clothier condescended to nod.

“At your suggestion.”

“It was not a suggestion. Birgide?”

Jester exhaled. He then told Haval what had occurred in the Terafin forest. Haval listened without comment—and without expression. Only when he was certain Jester was done did he nod.

“Very well. I will speak with Birgide.” The hint of a smile shifted the corners of his mouth. “I imagine Duvari will be ill-pleased.”

“At her?”

“That requires no imagination whatsoever. I thought you disliked the Lord of the Compact.”

“Anyone sane does.”

“Ah. A pity; you are certain to be seeing far more of him in the near future.”

 • • • 

They found Birgide by the fireplace; she appeared to be inspecting the mantel. Nor did she leave off that inspection when the door both opened—and closed—as they entered. Jester immediately walked to the cabinet which housed alcohol meant to entertain guests. As he opened the door, he thought of Ellerson; as he closed it, his thoughts strayed to Carver.

He didn’t want them to stay there; he picked up the two drinks, glanced once at a tray, and shrugged. Neither Haval nor Birgide were guests, and Birgide wasn’t drinking anyway.

“You delivered my message,” Haval said. He took an armchair as the question—which was not actually a question—drew Birgide’s attention away from her inspection.

She nodded. “There is surprisingly little information about you in the palace archives.”

“You checked.”

“I made that attempt. I did not have time to be more thorough, and I may be denied access to the full archives in future.”

“A fair precaution.”

She took the chair across from Haval. Her posture implied business.

“You have stated a wish to meet with Jarven ATerafin.”

Birgide nodded. “Wish is perhaps the wrong word. I believe what I said was that I need to speak with him.”

“Curious. Why?”

She met, and held Haval’s gaze. The intensity of the scrutiny on either side bored Jester to tears. “I seek information.”

Jester almost choked. “You’ll get, at best, half of what you want—and probably the useless half.”

Haval glanced in his direction. “While overly dramatic, Jester is essentially correct. You will not obtain useful information from Jarven unless you have information to trade—and even then, there is no guarantee. The information must have some amusement value, or some relevance to his interests. I assume you have no obvious merchant connections through which you might push.”

Birgide nodded.

“You cannot use Duvari as a conduit or a threat; Jarven is perhaps one of a handful of men in the Empire who does not consider the Lord of the Compact—or his many
Astari
—a danger. On the wrong day, he finds Duvari an irritant; on the right day, he finds him an amusement. He will give Duvari nothing, or less than nothing.”

Birgide exhaled. “That is unfortunate. Jarven, however, is one of two men who might lead me to the information I seek. I assumed, as Jarven is ATerafin, that he would be easier to approach.”

Jester coughed again.

Haval frowned. “And the other?”

“Hectore of Araven.”

“Hectore of Araven is generally the more approachable of the two. He does not condescend to fake extreme age or its inevitable effects.”

“Will he see me?”

“I am not his personal secretary; I cannot, of course, say. If, however, he agrees to any meeting, this will pique Jarven’s curiosity, and he may allow a meeting to satisfy it. Why these two men?”

Birgide glanced at Jester. Jester almost missed it.

But the question in that glance surprised him enough that he considered it with care. He didn’t particularly care for Haval, but considered him almost trustworthy; he understood that there was some history between the tailor and Jarven ATerafin that was almost certain to remain hidden. He knew that Haval’s former profession did not involve selling expensive dresses to the moneyed—but everyone had a past.

“Inasmuch as any man in Terafin—outside of the den and the Chosen—can be trusted, it’s Haval. He’s a bit like Duvari, but Haval, at least, is rumored to have a sense of humor. He will do nothing to harm The Terafin or her chosen causes; he will, at best, absent himself from those he disagrees with. If you’re concerned for The Terafin’s security, don’t be.

“If you’re worried about Duvari, on the other hand, I’ve got nothing.”

Birgide surprised both men present; she closed her eyes. It was a full minute before she opened them again. “I spoke with Cormaris.”

Haval’s left brow rose.

“Cormaris spoke of the Sleepers and their heralds.”

Jester rose, picked up his empty glass, and headed to the cabinet for a refill. Back to the room’s other occupants, he said, “Will they wake any time soon?”

“According to the god, yes. You don’t seem surprised.”

Jester shrugged. “Did he happen to give any hints how we might stop them?”

“You aren’t surprised.”

He drank. “I’d like to be, if that counts.”

“Do you have any idea where they are?”

Jester didn’t answer. Birgide accepted his silence.

“The god spoke of heralds.”

“Makes sense. The Sleepers were—when awake at the dawn of time—four Princes of the Hidden Court. Having heralds wouldn’t be much of a stretch. Did the god say the heralds would be responsible for waking them?”

“Not in so many words. He seemed to feel we could delay their waking by confusing or misdirecting the heralds.”

“Did the god say who these heralds are?”

“No. If they’re coming now, my best guess is that they are not mortal. But I believe Cormaris feels it’s only a matter of time—and no, before you ask, I didn’t ask how much time. I’m not sure gods experience time the way the rest of us do.

“He cautioned me—us—against trusting or relying on Meralonne APhaniel.”

Jester poured, emptied his glass, and poured again. “Did he say why?”

“I didn’t understand the full import of his answer, no. He seemed to expect that the mage would somehow change. Meralonne has always been chaotic.”

“I don’t suppose Duvari has actually discussed this with the Guildmaster of the Order of Knowledge.”

“Not in my presence.” Birgide’s smile was slight. “If I am not actually present, Duvari does not consider the knowledge to be of relevance to my duties—and no one asks Duvari for information, regardless. If the guildmaster feels that Meralonne will remain reliable, which Cormaris considered a remote possibility, he said that Meralonne could not stand forever against the three. But he also said that there was one other in the city who might be of aid in preserving
Averalaan
should the Sleepers wake.”

“She’s not here.”

“He did not refer to The Terafin. He referred to someone—something—he called
namann
, and he said that this creature was seen, briefly, in the company of Jarven ATerafin and Hectore of Araven. Cormaris told me to seek
namann
.” She hesitated; this was more measured. “I intended to approach the two god-born sons of Teos who reside in the halls of the Order of Knowledge—but they are west of the city itself, seeking information for their parent. I have asked contacts at the Order about
namann
, but,” and here she frowned, “was told that if this was an emergency, the scholar of choice in such matters would be Member APhaniel.”

“And Jarven and Meralonne are both, in theory, in residence in the manse.”

Birgide nodded.

Haval had let Jester do the talking; Jester resented it. He turned to the tailor and said, succinctly, “Your call.”

“I am not a member of the House Council.”

“Neither am I.”

Haval lifted both brows in open criticism. He then turned to Birgide. “I will ask you to discuss this with Finch before you make your choice. She has served as Jarven’s aide for a number of years; she knows him well enough to gauge the risk you take. She has also built some connection with Hectore of Araven.”

“Your advice?”

Haval looked surprised. Jester thought the surprise might even be genuine, although with the old man, it was impossible to be certain.

Birgide, however, accepted the expression at face value. “My position at the moment is difficult. I serve the
Astari
, but I will, in future, serve it as a member of House Terafin. And I will do nothing—not now, and not ever—to endanger the forest at the heart of The Terafin’s hidden lands. But I lack expertise in patrician games.”

“I cannot believe that,” Haval replied.

“Your belief is not relevant. I am, of course, aware of those who hold power, and those who exercise it. I have not been trained to interact in any way with the powerful and the patrician. I do not have the ear of the Kings or the Queens. I do not rub shoulders with the powerful among the guildmasters. I am aware of the internal workings of the Order of Knowledge because I am one of its many non-talent-born members.

“Jarven ATerafin is a notable power. I know some of his history and some of his activities, both before he was offered the Terafin name, and after. I know that Duvari dislikes him—but the dislike is superficial; he does not consider Jarven a threat. Or rather, he does not consider him as much of a threat as he does The Terafin herself.

“I know very little about Meralonne APhaniel—but what I do know is disturbing.”

“And that?”

“He has been a member of the Order for a very, very long time. He was a member in good standing—and a First Circle mage—when Sigurne was brought from the Northern Wastes. His power is, and has always been, considerable. He was not, however, considered a credible threat. And I find that extremely unusual.”

Haval said, “It is.”

“What do you know about Meralonne, then?”