Oracle: The House War: Book Six (87 page)

Into his ear, she said, “We’re—we’re home.”

“Yes.” He wanted to tell her that home was not where she needed to be; that she had not finished her quest, had not spoken to the mysterious Oracle. But he could not; he needed to hold to winter, and winter was melting beneath his hands. The earth did not. But here, it slumbered, its anger dim, the roots buried—and guarded—in its depths, stronger.

He needed to hold this path. He needed to build it and see its boundaries clearly, because the Matriarch needed to walk it.

“Jay!” He looked up at the sound of a blessedly familiar voice. Finch stood not twenty yards from them, beneath the boughs of the great trees. Beside her, hands twisting in den-sign, stood Teller, and beyond them, red hair catching the eye, Jester. But they were not alone; Adam saw Haval Arwood and—and Hectore of Araven.

“Terafin!” Two of the Chosen were also present; they pushed themselves forward.

None of this would aid him in the work he now did. He closed his eyes; he could not even lift his hands to sign, or everything would unravel.

 • • • 

Jewel looked up from her desperate perch across Adam’s back. For the first time since he had undertaken the task set for him by Lord Isladar, she lifted her hands from his and rose. She was not surprised to see the Master Bard of Senniel College to her right. Celleriant stood to her left; both were armed. Kallandras’ hair contained splinters and ash; Celleriant’s, nothing.

She glanced, once, at Kallandras’ hand. The skin around the ring finger was blistered and looked raw; nothing about his carriage or his expression implied that this caused him pain. Had Adam not been so clearly—fearfully—occupied, she would have told him to tend to the bard.

She was not entirely certain the bard would allow it.

Not twenty yards from where she had huddled stood her den, or at least three of them. Torvan and Arrendas, swords drawn, moved toward her, and froze when she lifted a hand. Haval, Hectore, and Jarven stood around Birgide Viranyi. And so, she saw, did Haerrad. Haerrad ATerafin. She stiffened, lifting her hands to sign.

Finch got there first.
He’s with us.

Why?

Complicated
.

Before she could speak—Haerrad’s presence hindered any frank discussion—Andrei bowed to her, in full view of combat and demons; he held that bow until she realized he would remain in that posture until she bid him rise. She was not dressed for court or council or
Avantari
; she was dressed for trekking across a winter wasteland. She opened her mouth, but Hectore spoke first.

“Get up, Andrei. You are embarrassing The Terafin.”

“He’s not—”

“He is. You have never been particularly fond of obsequious behavior, even when warranted—and it is not warranted now, of all times.”

Avandar appeared to Jewel’s left. He glanced around the oddly shaped clearing, his eyes coming to rest on the only other people that occupied it. The shape of his eyes shifted, briefly, when he saw Birgide Viranyi. He altered the patterns of his protections, encompassing the grouped members of House Terafin beneath a barrier similar to the one that now enclosed Jewel and Adam.

He frowned and looked up; Jewel was terrified, for one long breath, that the three-headed, flying serpent had joined them. But the air contained only two men, and one, she was almost certain, was Meralonne.

She started to ask. Shadow interrupted her, glaring like certain death at the rounded curve of Adam’s back.

“Stupid, stupid,
stupid
boy!”

“Shadow.” Teller started forward; Finch stopped him. He had always been fond of cats—even the great, messy, winged kind.

“Yesssss?”

“Where are your brothers?”

“Who
cares?
”

“I do, or I wouldn’t be asking,” Teller replied, lowering his voice.

Shadow huffed. “They’re
coming
. They are
slow
and
stupid
. But not as slow and stupid as
him
.” By which “him,” he clearly meant Adam.

A sword whistled above Shadow’s tufted ears. He would have been without them—and part of his head—had he not flattened himself briefly against the earth. Nor did he remain in place when the sword’s arc passed him; he moved. He could, however, complain without pause no matter what he was doing. And did.

The demons that had been attacking Angel had arrived in the forest with them.

Jewel glanced, once, at Adam’s back; she wanted to run to Finch and Teller. She didn’t. But she looked at Birgide Viranyi, just as Avandar had done. Isladar and Darranatos did not—thank all the gods anywhere, ever—materialize in the clearing as well. She could no longer hear the sounds of their uneven battle. Instead, she could hear Meralonne and his opponent; she could hear Angel and Terrick. The demon that had taken to air had landed, although Jewel wasn’t certain of the precise moment of landing.

She did not see the Winter King. Nor did she see the other two cats. The loss of neither concerned her. But Snow had Shianne, and Shianne was not yet here.

Shianne is capable of defending herself, should the need arise. Calliastra is not present, either.

Jewel was not afraid—in any way—for Calliastra.

No?
Avandar asked. She knew why. Duster had died.
Shianne is not mortal the way you are. She could stand among First Circle magi and be reckoned powerful.

Why are you so certain?

I observe, Jewel. And if you did, you would see it, as well. She is not, and will never be, as you are.

But she’s mortal—

Yes. And all that means, where she is concerned, is that she will bear a child and eventually die. Mortality does not fundamentally alter her thoughts, her dreams, her desires; it does not fundamentally change the core of who and what she is.

Mortality
defines
us. Death, loss, fear of death and fear of loss—

Do you think she does not fear these things? Immortals are not invulnerable. You have seen them perish.

You’re immortal,
she said quietly.

I am still, and always, a man—but I cannot die, no matter how much damage I take. The gods were not unkind; the damage heals, the body renews. But eternity becomes a curse, with the passage of time. Shianne will learn to fear hunger, but the cold? The summer heat? No. She will not privilege or cherish life the way you and your kin do—not even the life of the child she carries.
There was a hesitation in his voice, a sudden well that implied endless depth without illumination.

Jewel turned as a demon roared.

She saw Terrick’s axhead buried in the side of the creature’s neck; blood spurted as he yanked it free. Angel’s sword was likewise buried in demonic flesh. A rivulet of blood fell, traveling the contours and crevices of the creature’s slender height; it seeped into the earth yards from Jewel’s feet. She felt it as if she were the earth; it was warm and wet. Like summer rain or tears. Instinctively, she cupped her palms as if to catch it; she could not later say why.

Kallandras leaped into the air; it carried him as he joined Angel and Terrick in their battle. Celleriant glanced at the three and almost shrugged; he looked, instead, to the sky.

Jewel reached out to catch his arm before he returned to combat, as the bard had done.

Adam inhaled, the sound sharp enough to cut silence without quite breaking it. “Tell the cats to land,” he told Jewel, eyelids trembling as he lifted his face. He didn’t open his eyes. He didn’t lift his hands.

“They’re not here,” she told him.

“They are.”

She hesitated only briefly. She did not understand what Adam was doing—but she trusted him. He was healer-born; he could sense, by touch, what she would pay money never to have to look at.

“
Snow! Night!
Come to me!” she shouted, although she couldn’t see the cats for the light all around: the gold and the blue of Avandar’s dome, the strange trails of light above it, and the roving clash of red and blue that sounded, at this remove, like thunder.

She heard Shadow hiss laughter, and saw, at last, the winding shadows of his two brothers as they made their way to the ground, crossing all barriers as if they were nonexistent. Night took a chunk out of demon leg as he buzzed past.

Jewel turned to Snow; Shianne was still seated upon his back. Only when Shianne moved did Jewel remember to breathe. Had Shianne been anyone else, Jewel would have run to her side and pulled her off the white, furry miscreant.

She was, however, Shianne. She looked much like the Winter Queen herself: a presence that should not be approached or touched.

She was pale, to Jewel’s eye—even paler than she had been; her eyes seemed dull, although she couldn’t say why, they were still the same bright silver. “If . . .” she trailed off. Turned to face Teller, who was waiting.

“We ran into some trouble we couldn’t defeat while we walked the Oracle’s path.”

“And you came here?”

Remembering that Haerrad was among her kin, she said, more stiffly than she had intended, “Yes. Here is the heart of my power. We seem to have lost the worst of the demons and the giant, flying serpent, though.”

“And you have returned with a new companion.” It was Andrei who spoke. His eyes were wide, his face as pale as Shianne’s. He did not approach; he bowed. This bow was very like the bow he had offered Jewel; it did not discomfort Shianne in the same way.

She bid him rise; Hectore did not. Not even Hectore could speak, for a moment, in her presence. Only when Andrei rose did the servant’s expression betray surprise—but there was sorrow in it, as well.

“I did not think to see you here,” Shianne said quietly. “These lands are not unoccupied.”

“This is not the first time I have visited them.”

“And it is allowed?” She turned, then, to Jewel. “These lands . . . are yours?”

“They are mine.”

“Do you understand what or who your . . . guest . . . is?”

“He is servant to Hectore of Araven. I owe him my life, although I am not certain he would remember the incident; it occurred when I was a child.”

“I see. Mortals are strange.” She turned once again to Andrei, her eyes narrowed. “Who is Hectore of Araven? I have never heard his name.”

Jewel started to answer, but Andrei lifted a hand; she fell silent. Hectore had not chosen to speak or identify himself. “We did not meet often in the wilderness,” Andrei said quietly. “And on the few occasions we did, the outcome was uncertain. I am not permitted to rekindle old hostilities at present.”

“And I have no interest in them, now. I do not think I would be a worthy opponent in my current state.” She turned her face toward the sky. “. . . Or perhaps ever, again. Jewel, do you know this Hectore of Araven?”

“I do.”

“Is he powerful enough to contain the being who stands before us?”

Jewel did not hesitate. “He is.”

Andrei raised one familiar brow.

“I’m seer-born,” she told him, before he could speak. “The answer is a visceral
yes
.”

“You do not even understand the question.”

“I don’t need to understand all of it, Andrei.”

He was silent for three long beats; no one rushed in to fill that silence because they were having difficulty dragging their eyes away from Shianne. Jewel felt sympathy for their efforts; she had the same problem. Given the nature of the rest of the problems she faced, it was welcome.

“I will not argue with you here; you do not have the time. Do not,” Andrei told her gently, “leave the circle Viandaran has traced upon the ground. You have not yet finished whatever task the Oracle set you, and there is no entrance to her realm from here. You stand on a narrow path woven out of two—no, three—disparate places; diverge from that path and you will fall into one of the three.

“You can see—”

“I see winter,” he replied, “and
Ellariannatte
. It is to the winter you must return. But, Terafin, the Warden of Dreams has touched the edge of your domain in your absence.”

She stiffened.

“Mortals could—and did—hold small pockets of the wild lands; one or two even reached the high wilderness and survived. But there is a reason that the Cities of Man were cities, and immovable. The Sen could not long hold what they had built if they traveled far from it, or were absent too long—and they did travel. Some were lost, although those tales have passed beyond legend and memory.”

“Do you remember?”

“No. I was never given permission to enter the cities. The Warden of Dreams was more welcome than I; he had more to offer in return for the power he gained. But even then, mortals were, and could be, wary.” He then turned his attention to Angel, Terrick, and Kallandras; they had finished.

Jewel signed to Angel, who nodded; he spoke in Rendish to the older Northern man, and they approached her—with care. To Teller and Finch, she said, “We encountered Darranatos on the road.”

Finch was silent for a beat. Two. But she spoke. “They knew where you were going.”

“Looks like. They started a fight; half of us avoided the dangerous bits for a while, but the fight itself threatened to wake the earth. Only the people who can fly would have survived it.” She hesitated, considered Isladar. In the end, she chose to keep his presence to herself. “Where is the Warden of Dreams?”

“If they are wise,” Andrei replied, “they do not remain in your lands.”

“Wisdom,” a very familiar voice said, “is not the province of dreams. Nor, in the end, the province of Nightmare.”

Jewel folded her arms and turned in the direction of this new voice.

 • • • 

She was not the only person who turned. Given the form he had chosen to adopt, he drew all eyes; Shadow fell momentarily silent. Snow and Night, who were bickering over their landing spot, did not. Shadow roared, wordless, which caught their attention; they slunk, bellies a bare foot above the ground, to surround Jewel, with their high wings and upright fur. Night, however, stepped on Angel’s foot.

“You have no permission to walk my lands,” Jewel said, drawing shoulders back and lifting chin.