Oracle: The House War: Book Six (73 page)

Meralonne raised both brow and pipe. “I am seldom called by the Kings.”

“You have been called far more frequently than a lowly botanist.”

“Indeed. What brings you to me? I am in the exclusive employ of Terafin; general inquiries may be delivered to the guildmaster in my absence.”

“I am tasked with seeking
namann.
”

 • • • 

A long pause followed; tobacco burned in the pipe’s bowl, undisturbed. “That is neither safe, nor wise.”

“No. The gods felt that you would be aware of his—or her—existence. They did not tell me what to look for.”

“They understand
namann’s
nature, up to a point.”

“He was sighted in the city.”

Meralonne said nothing.

“During the attack upon the Merchants’ Guild.”

“He was no part of that attack.” There was no doubt at all in Meralonne’s voice—and Meralonne had been a large part of the city’s defense.

“They did not imply that he was; merely that he was seen, and that he was of interest—of necessary interest—to the city itself.”

“And so you seek
namann
.”

“I seek, at least, information about him.”

“Has it occurred to you that the creature you seek might have no interest in the city, or its defense?”

Birgide nodded. “I am, however, a simple botanist, and when the gods give delicately worded commands in front of their sons, I hasten to obey.” Her smile was slight, but it invoked an answering smile from the mage. And pipe smoke.

To the Chosen—without a glance—Meralonne said, “We will converse in the inner chamber. In future, Birgide Viranyi is to be given access to all areas of the manse that are readily available to me.”

“That is not your purview,” the captain predictably replied.

“I will, if necessary, speak with the right-kin and the regent.”

Regent. The word hung in the air for a long, silent moment, untouched. The captain did not concede; he retreated. The mage offered Birgide a surprisingly deep bow. “It is merely a matter of pride,” he said, pipe stem briefly pressed between lips. “I could not stop you from entering this domain while you live—and I suspect your death would be very, very difficult for even a First Circle mage to achieve.” This, he offered as the Chosen listened. Birgide suspected it was as much of a concession as the mage was willing to make; they would, of course, hear, and they would, of course, report.

Birgide once again stepped into the heart of the Terafin manse. She felt, as she did, that the description was literal: here, the wild, ancient magics with which the forest itself was imbued were at their peak. She could hear the muted whispers of moving leaves in the ancient trees as if she was standing beneath their boughs; she could hear the gurgling flow of brooks or streams in the distance.

And she could see Meralonne APhaniel as she had never seen him; it was Meralonne who drew and held her attention.

 • • • 

His working robes had vanished, to be replaced by raiment of silver and gold, and his hair—white and striking in its length—was platinum, its fall unimpeded. His forehead was unbroken by adornment, but Birgide expected to see a crown or circlet across his brow.

His eyes, like his hair, were platinum. Age had never defined the mage; his age had long been a guessing game among the young and the naive who had entered the Order’s doors by passing their many tests, most written.

But seeing him now, she knew that he was ageless. No lines, no blemishes, no touch of sun disturbed his perfect features. She reached out to touch him, her mouth half-open, and stopped before she could lose her hand.

But his smile deepened, as did his amusement, and the pipe in his hand—worn, weathered, and clearly well-loved—did not change at all. “You are not the Warden I would have chosen,” he told her quietly.

She struggled to find her voice. What she found instead was Duvari’s. She knew exactly what he would say, should he venture upon them now: Meralonne APhaniel, a First Circle mage, and Birgide, one of the
Astari
, gawking like a pampered young noblewoman. It grounded her.

“The forest,” she replied, with quiet dignity, “is not yours. It’s not your decision to make.”

His smile was brilliant, unfettered, unlined; he glanced, once, at his smoking pipe. She almost—almost—offered to hold it for him. “No, indeed. Do you understand the nature of the power granted you?”

“No.”

“You are remarkably honest. I am not certain such honesty is wise.”

“There are two cases in which honesty is irrelevant.”

“You’re quoting.”

“I am. In any situation in which the power and knowledge resides entirely on one side, honesty is irrelevant. It makes no difference.”

“You do not believe that you hold all of the power.”

“No. You do.”

“Do not be rash,” he replied. “You make assumptions based on your certainty of your own ignorance. You are not without power here. It is my belief that your power, in this place, is the greater power. If I were to leave the manse, it would no longer be undefended.”

“And will you?”

“Not yet, Birgide. Not yet. You have spoken with gods, and the gods have answered—but as with any beings of power, they have expressed their intent and desire poorly.
Namann
is unusual. It would be best if you left off your search.”

She said nothing.

“But if you will not, there are things you must know.
Namann,
in the ancient anals, was considered of the firstborn.”

“Firstborn?”

“The scion of the wild gods, born when the gods walked the plane and mingled, however briefly, with the living. You have heard of the Wild Hunt? The White Lady who rides at its head is of the firstborn. The Oracle is firstborn. There are others,” he added, pausing to inhale a stream of smoke.

“You don’t believe
namann
is firstborn.”

“In keeping with his existence, he is—and is not. No restrictions were placed upon his form; nor were restrictions placed upon the power he received. The gods in their youth created him, in concert. He did not have a single parent, or even two, but many. Not one of the gods withheld their power. He is the only proof that gods long dead existed. He can never be all of one thing, or all of another. The gods did not tell you what to look for; they offered no description. They could not.
Namann
defies simple categorization.

“In the eyes of mortals, he might take any form; he might take parts of any form—but those parts would not appear cohesive or whole. His appearance has always unsettled those who view him. Were he within the city, believe that you would know.”

“If he can take any form he desires—”

“You do not understand. The form he takes is only tenuously wed to his desire; he is pulled, constantly, by many shapes and many powers, and he is torn between them almost literally. If he has come to be in the city, do not assume that he has lived here disguised and in isolation. If he has found some method or manner of securing a physical form and you interfere, the damage that might be done to the city is incalculable.”

“You know where he is.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not. I know that he is, like tidal waves or storms at sea, unpredictable; he is a force of nature that cannot be invoked or controlled, even at his own behest. What function did the gods feel he might serve?”

Birgide fell silent.

Meralonne nodded.

“May I ask if you are, in some fashion, like
namann?
”

Brows rose; pipe stilled. It was almost as if he could not decide whether to take offense at the question. “In what way?” he asked at last.

“You have labored beside Sigurne Mellifas for the entirety of my life; if the various members of the Order are not mistaken, you have served, more or less diligently, for longer.” Given the petty jealousies endemic in the Order—or in any body in which people gathered—more or less was generous. “The Guildmaster of the Order appears frail, delicate, forgetful; the polite fiction among those of the Order who will condescend to speak with the talentless, is that this description is accurate. She is accompanied by Matteos Corvel; he is her right hand. He is, however, upstanding. In matters of delicacy, he will not move hand or foot across the line of his own ethics.

“And yet, members of the Order with overweening ambition have perished.”

Eyes glinted like sword edge.

“I believe that you have some small attachment to the guildmaster, however poorly it is expressed. She is known for her war against the demon-kin. You are known for the part you have played in it. I cannot conceive of Sigurne Mellifas rejecting the responsibilities she has almost single-handedly made the focus of the magi—but if she does not, what would compel you to do so?”

“A good question.” The response was mild, if chilly.

Birgide waited. When it became clear that no further answer was forthcoming, she shrugged. She meant to ask Meralonne about the Sleepers, but the words would not leave her mouth; there was no politic way to ask the only question she suddenly felt was relevant. Not directly.

“If you have no advice to offer in regards to
namann
, I will take my leave. While you consider the search unnecessary, the gods disagree, and I am beholden to at least one son of Cormaris.”

“Would it surprise you to hear that I do not know?”

She froze.

“I cannot see the future; I cannot revisit the past. What I remember of days ancient and almost forgotten is stronger and more visceral than the decades I have spent in pointless labor within the Order. The world as it exists for you is not the world of my youth.”

“No. Change is a constant.”

“You are Warden, Birgide. It is not possible for petty illusions and polite fictions to fool you, unless you choose to be deluded. The world of Sigurne’s youth is not the world of mine, as you have long suspected.” He gestured, and the pipe vanished. “
Namann
is a creature from the time of my youth. The warnings I have offered are meant as an act of generosity.” Wind rose beneath the amethyst sky, touching only the mage’s platinum hair. “Listen, when you walk in the forest. Listen to the wind; listen to the leaves; listen. I do not know if you will ever hear the forest’s true voice—but the forest, clearly, has heard yours.” He glanced at her left hand; she lifted it, exposing the palm, that he might better inspect it.

He reached out; the tips of his fingers stopped just short of a scar that was both luminescent and somehow metallic. In a voice far softer than she had yet heard from him, he said, “There is still wonder in this world; there are still surprises. You are mortal, Birgide, and yet you
are
Warden.

“What do you understand your duties to be?”

“I am guardian of the forest—and the wilderness—of Terafin. I am not The Terafin’s personal guard. She has no need of that—she has the Chosen, and they are far better than I would be.”

“You are mistaken.”

“No,” she said quietly, and with a sudden, visceral conviction, “I’m not. They occupy spaces that she will never allow me to occupy—and that is as it should be. I don’t know yet how I am to fulfill the duties I’ve accepted; I know only that I will find a way.” She hesitated, and then added, “I have never felt so strongly about anything in my life.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Odd. Mortals experience a depth of instant emotion it is otherwise difficult to achieve. You spoke with the gods.”

“I spoke only with Cormaris.” She hesitated. He marked it.

“The Lord of Wisdom is concerned about the Sleepers. There is no other reason he would impel you to seek
namann
. You have so little time.”

She made a decision, then. “He also spoke of the heralds.”

“To you.”

She nodded.

“They are coming.” It was not a question.

“So the gods believe.”

His smile was as bright as his eyes. “Do not ask me to interfere, Birgide. Not even Sigurne would be so foolish. But I will tell you this: if any can impede their progress now, you can. You must understand what Jewel herself refuses to see: Terafin’s vast forest, its hidden pathways, the whole of its waking, wild majesty, are not confined to the simple, architectural plans of a manse and its lands.

“There is a reason that the
Ellariannatte
grow in the Common—and until recently, only there.”

Birgide was silent for one long beat. “Why do you think she refuses to see this if it is true?” She did not accuse the mage of error. Had he been a mortal First Circle mage, such an accusation would have offended him for life. “She is a power. She is one of The Ten, arguably at the head of the most powerful House. Anything that increases that power preserves the House and its stability.”

“That is, no doubt, what the rest of The Ten—and the Lord of the Compact—feel. Their feelings are not materially relevant. What she will not acknowledge is nonetheless truth; acknowledge it and work with it if you are to preserve what you have vowed to preserve. More than that, I cannot or will not say.”

“What do you want, APhaniel?”

“From you? Nothing.”

“At all.”

“Would it surprise you to hear that I do not desire the destruction of this vain, gray mortal city?”

She was no longer certain.

“Three of the heralds will travel along the ancient roads. You are not conversant with the lay of the hidden land; before they approach this city, you will not be aware of their existence. But when they do, Birgide, if you listen carefully and mind the small perturbations in your preserve, you will know. You cannot, I think, kill them; nor can you bar their passage permanently. Jewel could, if she were present and she were focused—but she does not walk the whole of her domains, and because she does not, they are less secure than they might otherwise be.

“You are therefore left with few choices and few options. You may misdirect them. You may, with effort, shift the paths they walk. The forest itself might bespeak them—I cannot say. It has not chosen to directly speak with me, and I have wandered beneath its many boughs.”

“There is a fourth herald.”

“Yes. But he will not walk roads you can directly influence yet. If he is to be stopped at all, he will be stopped by the mortal guards and bureaucrats who gather in this city’s many buildings like rats. And because he does, and can, he is not, in the end, to be feared.”