Oracle: The House War: Book Six (85 page)

“What is this?” Haerrad demanded. “Is there a traitor amongst you?” The question made no sense to Jester. “Tell me,” he said, his voice expanding and deepening. He swept the fire aside with his hands; flames caught the fine turn of laceless cuff, singeing it. Jester thought he saw blisters form across the pads of Haerrad’s palms.

Birgide did not move. “Leave,” she said quietly.

Haerrad laughed. “Do you think I require your permission to be here, little mortal? If such permission were required, how would I be here at all? You overestimate both your power and your import.”

“You are only barely here,” Birgide replied.

The smile on Haerrad’s face guttered.

“I do not know how you entered this place at all—but you will leave it, now.”

Haerrad lifted his left hand. Jester would not have been surprised had a sword or shield come to it; nothing did. But Birgide staggered back two steps; Jester caught her, steadying her. After a few seconds, it was no longer necessary.

“Do not,” Jarven said, in a colder, stronger voice, “kill him.”

“You wish to take me alive?” The smile returned to Haerrad. “How quaint, and how foolish. I am not under any such restriction. You will perish here, tonight, all of you.”

He turned to Finch, and his hand flew out in a fist, opening at the last moment as if he were throwing something.

Finch, pale and grim, stood her ground, waiting.

“What is this?” Haerrad said, when nothing happened. “Clearly we have, as we feared, been misinformed.” He gestured with his other hand; Finch staggered. She did not, however, fall; nor did she perish. Jester could feel the hair on the back of his neck stiffen. It was very, very seldom that he felt raw, visceral fear.

The fires that twined in a circle around the House Council member grew thicker; the mesh of tendrils, stronger. They scorched both carpet and flooring where they stood—but they did not spread at all, proof if it were needed that they were under Birgide’s control.

“Is this all you have, little pretender? Or are you afraid to use the power of your station against me? Or perhaps you are waiting for rescue? That is very mortal of you. If you wait upon Illaraphaniel, you will wait long; he is otherwise occupied this eve. He will arrive, but too late.”

And Finch said, clearly, “We do not require his aid.” She stood, arms by her sides, her unremarkable, mousy hair pulled tight off her face. She was, as she had always been, slender almost to the point of shapelessness, as if the lean hunger of her early years refused to leave her. “You are not Haerrad.”

“Am I not?”

“No. I have some familiarity with both Haerrad and his many, many incursions; poison is not Haerrad’s game. It is too impersonal. Assassination? Yes. He is no stranger to that. But he is
of
Terafin, and he would never assassinate an outsider of Hectore of Araven’s import.”

“I am not here for Hectore, but for you and the right-kin.”

“And you intend to let him live?”

“Of course. He will serve as necessary—and disinterested—witness. Or he would have, but sadly, you have spoken too much.” He gestured again. For one silent moment, Jester felt that he was standing on the pier in the harbor, watching the storm roll in, the air was that charged.

The demon pulled his arms in and when they shot out, something struck armor; Torvan staggered. Arrendas moved toward the circle of fire, sword raised.

Finch heard, of all things, Jarven’s muttered imprecation.

Dishes flew, as if grabbed by a plethora of invisible hands; for the first time since even the pretense of dinner had so abruptly come to a halt, Finch raised her arms to cover her face. She lowered them briefly when she heard the sound of cracking wood. The doors that had nestled against the wall had already vanished; it was not, therefore, the doors. Nor was it the floor, although the planks beneath her feet seemed to shudder, as if the room were resident on a great, sailing ship, and not within a manor.

It was the ceiling. The exposed, stained beams directly above the table shuddered once, as if too great a weight had been placed, instantly, across them.

Finch did not believe she could survive the weight of whatever now crushed the roof; the dress that Haval had so painstakingly—and resentfully—constructed had limits. But she wasn’t certain the ceiling
was
collapsing. It was, however, dropping chunks of dead wood and plaster.

None of it hit the guests. The sideboard would be scored and dinged, but neither it nor the table had collapsed. Most of the cutlery and dishes had been thrown across the room at the people who now cowered behind Andrei. None of them hit.

Finch raised her eyes.

What had once been flat ceiling with exposed beams and a simple chandelier was fast becoming a weave of vines. It was disturbing to watch their growth; they seemed almost sentient as they discarded elements of the roof. Finch thought of snakes. It was not comforting.

And yet, in some fashion, it was.

The fire that surrounded Haerrad rose.

One lone vine, twisted and nubbled, reached down from the heights to meet tendrils of fire. For one held breath, Finch thought the vine would burn. It did not. But it drew the fire toward Birgide Viranyi, and she held out a hand to receive it. Her face was pale, her expression intent; she did not hesitate to take the two vines in each of her palms.

Finch thought she smelled singed flesh.

Jester moved out from behind Birgide, dagger in hand. Even at this distance, Finch recognized the ornate, engraved blade for what it was: consecrated. Finch wasn’t certain what it would do against mortal flesh, because she was almost certain that Haerrad himself was still alive; that the creature that manipulated his mouth and his body was not yet the whole of him—as it had once been of Rath.

Finch had no love for Haerrad. In order to threaten Jay, he’d had Teller injured. He had not, however, had him killed. There was very, very little that Haerrad would not do in order to gain power; very few tools he would not use. He had retained—privately—the services of the magi; he had retained, more privately, services that were less easily categorized. He had used bribery where possible, and extortion where it was not. In Finch’s observations, he seemed to prefer the expense of bribery.

She could not imagine that he would willingly carry a demon into the Terafin manse—not when the container was his own person. No, she would go further. In the end, no matter how much she despised him, she could not believe that he would use demons in his attempt to gain power.

Finch understood why Jarven wanted him alive. For the moment, so did she.

She frowned, her gaze sweeping the room—or as much of the room as she could see; Andrei and Hectore were in the way. Jester stood by Birgide; Haval stood nearer Hectore than he had, moments before; Torvan and Arrendas stood on the outside of the ring of fire, swords in hand, waiting for an opening.

Jarven was no longer in the room. Or rather, Jarven could no longer be seen. Finch caught Hectore’s arm to draw him farther back; he was rigid. He might as well have been rooted; she could not move him. Nor did he acknowledge the attempt.

“Hectore.”

“We are not in danger,” Hectore replied, all chaos to the contrary.

Andrei nodded. Finch heard Hectore’s muttered curse. She caught his arm again. “What do you fear, Hectore?”

“You can ask me that at a time like this? There is more steel in you than even I guessed.”

Andrei, to Finch’s surprise, chuckled. “ATerafin,” he said, and then, because Teller and Jester were present, “Finch. Never pick up a tool that you are unwilling, in the end, to use. It is a waste.”

But Finch said, “If you consider friendship or service a simple tool, I have misjudged you.”

“And if I consider it a complex tool?”

“I’ve still misjudged you.”

Hectore laughed; most of the sound was lost to the surging crackle of flame. Some of the tension left him, then. It did not leave his servant—but it wouldn’t. Andrei was, to Hectore, what the entirety of the Chosen were to The Terafin. He would relax when this was over. Or when he was dead.

“There is a danger,” Andrei said.

Finch, watching the writhing mass of vines above their head, agreed. Three servants—if they were servants, and at this point, Finch doubted it—lay dead or dying. The interior of the private dining chamber had been destroyed; it looked worse, now, than the West Wing’s dining room.

Fire rose around Haerrad like a cage; he parted it with effort, the lazy smile extinguished. Birgide raised a hand, spoke a word—a word that resonated in the air, but that Finch could not repeat, even then—and the entire room brightened.

It was the brightness of open windows; it was the brightness of clear, noon sky. It was a warm natural light, as unlike the light fire shed as light could be.

Haerrad roared. Literally roared. Finch had heard demonic roaring before, and this was not it. He sounded berserk, yes—but not inhuman. She did not understand how demons could occupy living bodies in this fashion. She was certain that Haerrad was not talent-born, but he had—in this room—used magic.

“Leave,” Birgide said.

Haerrad pulled a knife. It was a small knife; it was not meant for fighting. Finch understood, when he lifted it, what he intended.

But so, apparently, did Jarven.

“Apologies,” he said, stepping out of nowhere into the demon’s line of sight, “but I cannot allow that.” He caught Haerrad’s wrist as the knife rose, and Finch heard bone snap. “Jester, now if you please.” He did not release the arm, but raised his own as Haerrad attempted to sweep him aside with the arm that was not yet broken. Finch was certain that Jarven could survive it, but found herself holding her breath.

Jester was across the room in seconds, dagger in hand. His face was not, as Haval’s or Jarven’s, expressionless. For one long exhale, she thought he would stab Haerrad—and he did, but only in the arm.

Where demons were concerned, it didn’t matter. The consecrated dagger pierced flesh and drew blood—Haerrad’s flesh, Haerrad’s blood. The creature screamed in either fear or fury; Finch couldn’t tell which, and didn’t care.

Haerrad’s legs collapsed beneath him, his knees giving; he controlled his fall.

“Birgide!” Jester shouted.

The flames that encircled him went out. He lifted his broken wrist, pulling it defensively into his chest, where he cradled it with care. But he looked up; Jarven was standing not five feet from his upturned face. Jester was closer. Finch left the protection of both Andrei and Hectore and came to stand between them.

Haerrad’s forehead glistened with sweat. “There are firsts for everything,” he said, meeting Jarven’s almost unblinking gaze. “I never thought I would have any cause to be grateful for a broken limb.” His gaze flickered over Jester, his lips in full frown. “Or stab wounds, either.” That gaze now settled on Finch. “How did you know?”

“We are in The Terafin’s chambers,” was her smooth reply. “There are defenses and protections built into this place.”

“You expected something to happen tonight.”

She nodded. “I was surprised to see you. On reflection, it makes sense. How did you come to be possessed?”

He grimaced.

“Were you aware of what occurred when the demon was in control of your body?”

Haerrad shuddered. “Yes.”

Finch exhaled. She turned to Hectore and Andrei, and offered them both a deep bow. “Patris Araven.”

He nodded in return. “ATerafin.”

“My apologies for the interrupted meal. I think it wise, at this juncture, that we attempt to resume the meal when things are less . . . fraught.”

He chuckled. “You will, I think, be busy in the foreseeable future.”

“Not, I hope, too busy to meet with you.” She turned to Haerrad. “I think it is time to visit the healerie. There were Chosen stationed outside of this room. Are they still alive?”

“I did not walk to this room from the manse,” Haerrad replied. “I did not encounter Chosen until I entered this room.”

“How did you arrive at the manse?”

“It is not clear to me. I have never paid the exorbitant price the magi charge to travel instantly from one locale to another—I am therefore unable to compare the two experiences. I was at the Placid Sea, having dinner with another member of the House Council. In the middle of dinner, I rose and left the building; when I was in an unoccupied stretch of street, I stepped through this door.”

“Impossible.”

H
ECTORE FROWNED AND
turned in the direction of the single voice; his expression made clear that the man who had dared to speak had broken iron social rules. Haerrad was, and had always been, a staunch defender of formal hierarchy.

Andrei was a servant. He did not add to the word he had dared to speak.

Birgide Viranyi, however, turned to Andrei. “How? He is demonstrably present.” She was not dressed as a servant; Finch thought it likely that Haerrad knew she was at least affiliated with the Household Staff.

“It should be no more possible to reach this room from the Common than it is to reach it from the foyer. If Haerrad ATerafin were dead, I do not believe the
Kialli
could have entered these rooms—or this manse—at all.”

“Why would it make a difference?” Jester asked as if he had a personal preference for Haerrad’s state.

“The mortal and the immortal do not generally coexist in the same state. The wilderness knows its own. If a demon arrived in the manse—through the trade entrance—it is my belief Birgide would know. But this was far more subtle.”

“You do not think the subtlety accidental,” Jarven said.

Haerrad was no fool; he now understood that, in this room, Andrei was considered an expert. Inclined to suspicion as he was, he nonetheless accepted that this particular servant would speak.

“No. I think it impossible.”

“Which means,” Teller said, joining the conversation, “that you think the demons know three things. One: that The Terafin is absent. Two: that Birgide is Warden. And three: that Birgide doesn’t fully understand the limits of her abilities.”

Andrei nodded; he was frowning. Andrei often frowned, but not in this fashion. “Even were they apprised of all three, it should be impossible for the Council member to arrive in the fashion he claimed he arrived. It is not—” Andrei lifted his face toward a ceiling of rounded, twined vines. “Warden,” he said, his voice both soft and sharp.

Birgide nodded.

“Have you encountered the god-born in your tenure?”

“None,” Birgide replied, “save you.”

Andrei winced. Hectore grimaced. It was, however, Andrei who spoke. “My question was poorly phrased.” Birgide did not generally look at him for long, but forced herself to meet his eyes. “There is another hand at work, here. I do not believe it to be mortal. The mage-born have power—and that power will grow, now; none can forestall it. But that power is not knowledge.

“Power is not knowledge; it is another’s knowledge that has been used.”

And Finch said, “The Warden of Dreams.”

 • • • 

Andrei turned to face her, Haerrad all but forgotten. His expression was as neutral as Haval’s. Jarven did not bother with neutrality; he was instantly, identifiably, annoyed. Finch had, his demeanor implied, kept information from him—and it was information he considered both necessary and serious.

Haerrad—never a man who liked to be considered inconsequential—came to her rescue. “What, exactly, is the Warden of Dreams?” His tone was one step shy of open ridicule.

“I do not fully understand it myself,” Finch replied—as if she were seated in Council. “When The Terafin fell, briefly, to the sleeping sickness, it was due to the machinations of the Warden of Dreams. He almost killed her.”

“We did not hear of that.”

“No. The House Council, given the assassination of the previous Terafin, was not considered secure. The Terafin chose to keep that information to herself; she had clashed—in her chambers—with the Warden of Dreams, and she had survived to drive him off. We thought he was no longer a threat.” She turned to Andrei. “Is he here?”

“I am not the ruler of these lands,” Andrei replied. “Were I, I could answer your question. But I see their hand in this. It is subtle.” He hesitated. Everyone in the room marked it, Hectore with growing impatience. Without turning to face his erstwhile master, Andrei said, “I am endeavoring to answer the question, Hectore. A little patience would not be misplaced.”

Jarven chuckled.

This did not notably improve Andrei’s concentration. “The Warden takes power from dreaming. You understand this.”

Finch nodded, for it was to Finch that Andrei had turned—not Birgide, not Hectore.

“Mortals sleep. Mortals dream. We used to wonder if mortals were created for just that purpose. They brought a strength and majesty to the Warden of Dreams that they had never possessed prior. Immortals do not require sleep. Should they choose to do so—and there are those who did—they have ways of protecting themselves against the incursion of dreams. I will not say they do not dream—but their dreams are not like yours.

“If sleep, however, does not come to them at a manner or time of their own choosing . . .”

Finch closed her eyes.

“You understand.”

She did. She lifted her hands; they fluttered, briefly, in the open before they fell, trembling slightly, to her sides. “If—if those sleepers wake, will the Warden’s manipulation cease?”

Andrei did not answer immediately, but he did answer. For the first time since she had met him, his demeanor suggested endless age, and the wisdom that comes from merely existing for so long. “If those sleepers wake, everything the Wardens have attempted or accomplished to date will seem trivial and harmless.” He lifted his chin and turned, once again, to the Terafin Warden, who was so different from the Warden of Dreams. “The Terafin is not present,” he told her gently. “I can do what must be done—but I cannot do it without your permission, and that permission must be given in more than simple words.”

And Finch, watching Birgide, realized that no such visceral permission would be forthcoming. Had she believed it might be, she would have argued or demanded compliance—but Birgide could not even look at Andrei for long. What she saw—what no one else in the room could see—so repulsed her, trust was not a possibility.

And it would take trust. Andrei, Finch saw, accepted this. There was not even a trace of bitterness. “Can you do nothing without that permission?”

“I can do what the Warden can do,” Andrei replied. “Ah, no, forgive me; I can trespass in the way the Warden can.”

“Jay let you in.”

Andrei nodded.

“Jay never saw you the way—the way Birgide does.”

“I am less contained than I was when last I entered your home.”

Finch folded her arms in almost unconscious mimicry of Jay.

“Has Lucille not told you that if you make faces like that one, your face might freeze that way?” Jarven asked, highly amused. “You look like a younger version of Lucille—and may I remind you that I can only barely survive one?”

She glanced at him, and he did laugh. Finch then focused her attention on Andrei. “You fail to understand The Terafin. She accepted you. She accepted your presence here, in her private chambers. Contained or no, if you were a danger—to us—she would have known. I don’t know what she sees when she looks at you; I know she
can
see demons, no matter how cleverly they’re disguised. She knows when someone is lying to her, but she’s always been politic enough to accept the lies that are harmless.”

Haval cleared his throat. Finch turned a glare on him, which made Jarven laugh.

“I won’t say she trusted you,” she continued, as if there had been no interruption. “None of the den trust easily.”

Jarven coughed.

“Honestly, I am going to strangle one—or both—of you if you keep this up. You are embarrassing me in public.”

It was, of course, Hectore who laughed.

Andrei did not; he seemed to find the interruptions as irritating as Finch did. Another reason to like him, but if she were honest, Finch didn’t require it. His service to Hectore would have moved her, regardless. She wasn’t Jay—no one was. But here, she trusted her instincts. Andrei would do nothing, ever, that would harm Hectore.

And Hectore was here, with them, amused in spite of the seriousness of the situation.

That amusement fell away when Birgide stiffened and the ground beneath their collective feet shuddered. Shards of plates and cups scattered.

 • • • 

Jester was closest to Birgide; when the discussion had drifted—mentally and physically—toward Haerrad, who had managed to bind his own wound, because no one else was stupid enough to offer, Jester had returned to her side. He saw her eyes flash—literally flash—red; he saw her skin’s pallor shift. She looked almost like an animate corpse.

Jester raised a hand, flexed it briefly. He tossed the consecrated dagger away; it could be used effectively against demons only once, and against anything else, he had better weapons—if weapons were going to be useful at all.

The ground shook again; he bent into his knees, riding the tremor, and looked up to see that Finch was supporting Jarven. Andrei had not moved; Hectore was watching Birgide. Of course. The Araven merchant trusted Andrei, even if Birgide—or anyone else in the room—would not.

The walls of the dining room peeled away, almost literally, as if they were simple wallpaper, and someone was removing them in strips. The ceiling, already transformed, remained in place, but as the walls came down, Jester could see the trees around which the vines above their heads were twined. The Kings’ trees.
Ellariannatte
.

He could see the forest that lay hidden behind the Terafin manse: a glimmering in the distance of silver, gold, and hard, hard diamond. He could not see the bookshelves or the ornamental standing arches that led back to the rest of the manse. The dining room had been moved—or perhaps only its living occupants. Those included Haerrad.

Andrei looked at the distant trees—and at the
Ellariannatte
that now towered above them. He then turned to Hectore. “I would ask that you not interfere,” he told his master.

“I never interfere unless it is necessary.”

“That is stretching the definition of necessity to the breaking point, Hectore.”

The Araven patris laughed; it was a wild, almost exuberant sound. Andrei grimaced, but did not add further to the inexplicable hilarity.

The ground here did not move beneath Jester’s feet. The vines that had formed roofing retreated, and in their wake, revealed sky. That sky was blue; it looked very much like normal sky. It was not, however, empty.

In the distance, visible only because there was very little cloud cover, he could see two figures; they were limned in red and blue. Meralonne, as the demon within Haerrad had said, was clearly occupied.

“Birgide—why did you bring us here?” Jester asked, not liking the look of the aerial fight. “We’re too exposed.”

Birgide, teeth clenched, said, “I didn’t choose the location. This is where we have to be.”

“Why?”

If he could have clawed the question back, he would have. He saw from her expression that there was no answer she could give: she hadn’t chosen. He put a hand lightly on her shoulder, something he rarely did, even among the den. To his surprise she reached up and briefly crushed that hand. Nor did she release it.

Jester glanced to his left; the Captains of the Chosen, armed, were scouting the clearing. They had heard both Jester’s question and Birgide’s stiff silence. Torvan asked one terse question.

“Are we safe, here?”

“Yes. For now.”

“Are you aware of anything that might attack us here that’s immune to steel?”

“No.” Birgide hesitated, and then added, “I don’t think there are other demons.” Saying that, she looked to the sky. “. . . Other than the one Meralonne APhaniel has engaged.”

Torvan nodded. He turned to Arrendas, and they both looked to Teller and Finch; neither was happy at the lack of accessible backup. Jester was less concerned; Birgide and Haval were the equal of any of the Chosen when it came to combat. He privately suspected that Birgide was better.

“Can you help Meralonne?” Jester asked, looking skyward.

Birgide shook her head; her lips moved, but not deliberately enough to eject actual words. Her hand—the hand that was not curved around his as if to pin it in place—began to glow. Her brows furrowed; her eyes brightened. The latter made her seem inhuman, other. But her hand, where it pressed against his, was simple flesh, and it trembled. No sign of that fear otherwise touched her features.

Small colored globes left her hand as she gestured, flying to a point between the combatants and their audience; they exploded there. Trails of resultant light—orange, red, gold—shot out, as if those tiny globes had been simple fireworks.

But the light they shed remained in the sky.

Jester was not surprised when the trees began to move. He was, however, surprised—and not a little uneasy—when Finch called Haerrad to her side, and Haerrad obeyed.

The canopy of light did not encompass either Meralonne or his opponent—and even at this distance, the mage was unmistakable. He had, about him, a savagery and joy that Jester had witnessed before, in the foyer of the manse that lay beyond the trees. But he fought with sword against an opponent who also wielded shield.

Not even the demon that had destroyed the foyer in the Henden of 410 had been his match. “Birgide—”

“Not yet,” she whispered, her voice thin and dry.

Jester would have asked for more information, but Andrei said, “Jester.”

He turned.

“They are coming.”

“They?” Jester said, as the trees shifted again, and the earth trembled—for that little bit too long—beneath his feet.

“Your permission,” Andrei said again, to Birgide.

Birgide hesitated.

Hectore said, “Her permission is irrelevant. You do not have
mine
.”

“Hectore—”

“I mean it.” He spoke with strength and certainty; his voice carried. It carried, Jester thought, a greater distance than it should have, given the storm of noise above.

“I will not see you die here,” Andrei replied.

“No, you will not. I know you will not die here, regardless of the outcome. I can live with that. But I will not senselessly lose you because you are
mothering
me.”

Teller coughed. It surprised Jester; he recognized the particular sound of cut-off amusement.