Oracle: The House War: Book Six (86 page)

Haval and Jarven were silent and watchful, but their gazes flickered around the clearing, gauging and measuring what they saw. Even the movement of trees, as roots broke earth and the standing shape of the forest became a log-wall clearing around the gathered dinner companions, did not fully hold their attention.

 • • • 

“Will he win?” Jarven asked casually, when he looked up.

Haval nodded. “It is not for the mage that I am concerned.”

Jarven’s smile was grim, but focused and amused. His eyes were bright. Haval’s were not. They were both, in their fashion, armed, although Jarven was less obvious about it. Haval saw no pragmatic need to dissemble among the men and women gathered here—with one obvious exception; Jarven saw no particular reason to be open. Haval had oft wondered if Jarven ATerafin was actually capable of trust.

Trust, however, was unnecessary. If one saw clearly and saw objectively, trust became irrelevant. Desirable, comforting, but irrelevant. Much, Haval thought, like love.

Teller wanted them to gather in a tighter group. He made this clear without speaking, which allowed Haval to ignore it.

“One question, Council member,” Haval said, in a silence that was otherwise composed of held breaths.

Haerrad replied, “I am to be addressed by servants and common merchants today, it seems.” He did not glance at Finch or Teller; he merely folded his arms, recovering much of the bulk and height he used so effectively.

Haval was not offended; nor was Andrei.

“Your question?”

“With whom were you dining in the Placid Sea?”

Haerrad’s gaze narrowed. “Three others were present with me. As you no doubt suspect, the topic of discussion was the absent Terafin and the complex question of a regency. Sabienne was there as my aide.”

And witness, Haval thought, but said nothing.

“The others were Verdian—” Finch’s inhalation was short and sharp; Haerrad’s smile was broad and ugly. “Yes. Verdian was there as aide to Rymark.”

“There are witnesses?”

“I am willing to entertain the words of a common merchant; I am unwilling to be accused—however subtly—of lying.”

“Consider the lack of trust a badge of honor,” Jarven said, offering a slender smile that even Haval found disturbing. “You are a man of both consequence and power, and the games you play are not trivialities, but a way of life. At no point in any crisis do you ever fully surrender them—even, I am certain, now.”

Haerrad was both suspicious and flattered. The former was a given, when dealing with men of political power and cunning; the latter was more difficult to achieve. The controlled anger that had informed his words to Haval evaporated slowly. What was left was more measured.

Angry men could often be counted on to make mistakes. Haerrad’s anger was different; it sharpened and honed his cunning. Haval had met few of whom he could say this with confidence; it was a rare trait.

Jarven, however, was among that handful. He was not, in Haval’s estimation, angry—not yet. Against the narrow, predictable anger of a man like Haerrad, Jarven’s fury was the more dangerous.

“There were witnesses.” He turned to Finch. “Rymark is willing to support The Terafin; he claims to have undertaken no actions against her since her investiture. He is not, however, willing to support a regency if you are to be the regent. With apologies to the right-kin,” he added, “he is unwilling to support your tenure in that position, either. He considers you both too young and too inexperienced.”

Teller inclined his head gravely. Finch, however, said, “In matters of the economic welfare of the House, I am more qualified than Rymark.”

Haerrad shrugged. He looked to Jarven. “Regardless, Finch, you are not favored as regent by the House Council.”

“I was not aware that the possibility had been discussed by the House Council,” Finch replied. “Your vote in these discussions would have carried no weight, regardless; you were meant to die, tonight.” Yes, Haval thought, watching her: she was Jarven’s student.

Haerrad did not blink. Nor would he; threats to his life—especially those that had come within a hair’s breadth of success—were merely indications that he had been careless. He shrugged, as if it were of little consequence. “As were you.”

“And neither of us are dead.”

Haerrad inclined his chin more stiffly than Finch had; it was almost—for Haerrad—a gesture of surrender. “Yes. Your survival—and your calm—is both surprising and impressive.” He glanced at Jarven, who said nothing. “While The Terafin lives, she is Terafin. Given the difficulties she has faced at this early point in her tenure, I expect she will live for decades; what killed her predecessor would not, in my opinion, scratch the leather of her softest boots. Were she any other, I would consider her too weak to rule.

“But her survival to date is the counterbalance against that opinion, no matter how well-informed or considered it would otherwise be. I will speak with Sabienne, if we escape this place alive. If we do not—” he smiled. “Survival is proof of fitness, Finch. Remember that.”

Finch said, quietly, “Amarais Handernesse ATerafin was indisputably fit to rule. Her death does not invalidate the decades that preceded it. We will all die, one day. Survival alone says very little about fitness, to me.”

Haerrad raised a brow. “The mouse has teeth,” he said, to Jarven. Haval found this interesting; he found the entire interaction interesting. Jewel would never forgive Haerrad for his attack on Teller. Finch, he understood, would. He did not think this was due to Jarven’s particular influence; it was due to the underlying differences in the fundamental character of the two women.

Women, Havel thought dispassionately. Not girls.

Jarven was pleasantly neutral, his eyes slightly narrow as he regarded one of the most powerful members of the House Council. Haval assessed the likelihood of Haerrad’s future survival to be higher than he had previously anticipated. “She is not, and has never been, a mouse. She has survived my office. Have you known me to ever take a personal interest in mice?”

“Only when you mimic a cat.”

“Indeed. Imagine, if you will, what she has learned in the years we have been close associates. She is not my support in the House Council; when I join it, I will be hers.”

Haerrad said, quietly, “So, that rumor is true?”

“It is not rumor, but fact. If, as you say, we survive.”

Birgide said, “Come to me.
All of you
.” It killed conversation, demanded movement. Not a single person chose to disregard her, not even Haerrad. Pride could make him both condescending and insulting, but he proved, again, that he was not a fool. Torvan and Arrendas complied as well; they were more deliberate in their retreat.

“I did not trust Rymark,” Haerrad said; he was close enough to Finch to stab her. Finch did not move anything but her head; she lifted it, exposing the underside of her chin. The gown itself was very, very conservative. If Haerrad recognized the cloth, he gave no indication—but Haval doubted that he had.

“You do not trust me,” Finch replied.

He smiled. “No more do you trust me.”

“Not, perhaps, after today. You considered me weak enough to be inconsequential; you sought advantage for yourself in this. You do not seek the regency. Does Rymark?”

“I consider that question irrelevant as of today. I am, in some ways, a forgiving man. Where I do not trust—and I trust very, very seldom, if at all—I do not feel the sting of betrayal. An attempt to assassinate me is simply another tool in the arsenal of those who seek power; it is not better or worse than extortion—it is simply more direct.

“I am a direct man. I do not particularly relish killing; it does not, conversely, fill me with regret. But as most men do, I value my own life. Had this been a simple poisoning attempt, I would overlook it. I did not consider that possibility; it would be far too easy to trace.

“But, of course, if mastery over my own body was not to be mine, the action was less ill-considered.” He smiled. “I am angry,” he told her.

“As am I. And I confess I’m surprised. Rymark’s offer to serve The Terafin was—I am certain—genuine.”

Haerrad’s eyes narrowed. “You are not surprised by the events of this evening.”

“I’ve encountered them before. I have always considered Rymark personally responsible for The Terafin’s death; to know that he was capable of summoning or controlling demons is simple confirmation. But I believed that he had cut all ties with—” she stopped. “And Haerrad? This
is
too risky for him. I would not be surprised to learn he had little choice in the matter himself.”

“You think him possessed?”

“I think him a coward.”

Haerrad laughed. “And you do not consider yourself one.”

“Not in the same way, no. There is very little threat you could make against my person that would induce me to betray The Terafin. Rymark’s concern has been—first, foremost, always—his own survival.”

“We are all concerned with survival.”

“And the lack of demons under your control is merely a testament to your lack of magical talent?”

Haerrad’s eyes narrowed.

Finch lowered her chin. “Forgive my manners.”

“I am not certain I will,” he replied. “Gratitude covers a multitude of sins—but it is not endless.” He had apparently reached the limits of the manners he did claim to possess, and turned to the Terafin gardener.

“What danger, exactly, do you expect?”

Red lightning streaked from the heights above her colored canopy to the ground, sizzling and crackling; it did not land—but only barely. Birgide was pale, silent, stiff; her breath was becoming labored. Haval noted the sweat that beaded her forehead, the tighter clench of the hands that were now by her sides.

The
Ellariannatte
above their heads moved, branches coming in toward the center of their loose circle. The dinner party was not standing where the branches now converged; they were positioned farther back, toward the trunks of these ancient trees.

Haval was not surprised to see the rain of fire fall. He was surprised when Birgide Viranyi cried out, wordless, as that fire consumed leaves and smaller branches.

And he understood. “You are Warden,” he said quietly. “You feel you are guardian of—protector of—this forest, these lands.” She did not look down. “But these lands, if I understand anything that has happened, are Jewel’s. They exist in the fashion they exist because she is their Lord.

“You are not lord,” he continued, when she failed to respond. “I would have guessed that you had some experience with sending men—and women—to their probable deaths. You have certainly faced death yourself. But it is clear to me that the risks you have entertained have not involved the sacrifice of those you value, even when that sacrifice is willing—and necessary.” He turned, now, to Finch and Teller; he was certain that he had Jester’s attention as well, although Jester appeared to be supporting Birgide Viranyi.

“Be prepared as you can be. I believe the lord of this forest is about to return to it.”

They both turned to Haval, then—and Jester came out from behind Birgide. They were signing rapidly. Haval held up one hand to stem the flow of this “conversation.” “The forest has moved in a way it has never moved before in Birgide’s experience.” No one asked him how he knew this; Birgide simply nodded.

“This circle, this redrawing of a small part of the map, did not occur for our protection. I do not believe it occurred for the protection of the forest, either; Meralonne and his opponent are unlikely to pay much attention to the land they destroy in their battle.

“I believe the forest moves in such a fashion for one person, and one only.” He turned, hands clasped loosely behind his back, toward the center of this strange clearing. “Jarven?”

“I concur. You really are wasted in your current profession.”

“I am not. I am a very fine clothier; few possess my skills—as you are well aware. Fashion requires attention and observation; it requires an ability to move and shift one’s designs in subtle—and less subtle ways—to take advantage of current mores and current customs, even as one stretches them. It requires knowledge of those who will wear what is designed and constructed, and that therefore requires knowledge of where they will wear it, and in whose company; it requires knowledge of that company, great and small.”

“You almost move me to take up the needle myself.”

“Perhaps. You will never be allowed to do so in my shop.”

Jarven laughed. “Andrei?”

Andrei said, quietly, “They are coming. Stay here; do not move to greet them; do not move to interfere—at all. Haval is correct; what the wilderness will do to preserve its lord it will not easily or willingly do to preserve any others—even if their loss would cause more damage to The Terafin than physical injury.”

 • • • 

Adam knew the moment the forest changed, although his eyes were closed. The sense of
place
, of almost-home, shifted, strengthened, tightened. The struggle to hold it in place vanished—and, like a game of tug-rope when the opponent let go, nearly caused Adam to lose his balance.

He shifted his focus instantly, holding the desert in his thoughts. Winter desert, winter trees, endless snow, wind that seemed ice made air. This was harder; the winter world into which the Matriarch had stepped was no part of Adam’s heart. He did not know it as he knew desert; nor did he care for it as he had come to care for Terafin.

He opened his eyes to dark forest floor, and he cursed softly in Torra. If the other world slipped away, he could not—no. Something else was wrong or strange. He was not, now, within the Terafin manse. Isladar had said—and Adam had trusted—that to cross worlds, however briefly, they had to go home.

This—this was the Matriarch’s forest. This was the world in which the dreamers had gathered for their odd festival, under the benign watch of a man and a woman who had never been human. He exhaled, inhaled, clutched dirt beneath his palms; he heard the Matriarch’s curse—twin to his in chosen words, but more visceral, more felt.

“Stay,” he told her in urgent Torra. “Keep them close, Matriarch.” It was hard to speak clearly; impossible to speak loudly.