Oracle: The House War: Book Six (89 page)

“You do not—”

“You have taken another lord. You no longer answer directly to the White Lady. But you are, as I am, of her; you have not forgotten, and you are not forsworn.” She turned, then, to Jewel as Celleriant trod air, sword and shield readied but still. “These are your lands. They are almost awake; I can hear the whisper of ancient trees and the song of their hearts.” Her smile was gentle but tinged with sorrow. “Call them, Jewel, and they will walk.”

 • • • 

The Warden of Nightmare faced them, his wings throwing darkness across flames that continued to burn without consuming anything in the clearing. His two shadows worked in concert, although their movements were subtly different; Jewel expected no aid to come from the Warden of Dream.

She expected no aid from the cats, either. “What are you going to
do
with him?” Shadow demanded. “
Talk
him to
death?
”

Snow hissed laughter. “Why can’t
we
play with him?”

“I let you do that once. I almost died.”

Night sniffed. “But you
didn’t
.”

“No thanks to any of you.”

All three cats hissed at once.

“Now hush. I can’t kill him.”

Shadow sniffed. “Let
us
do it.”

“Already said no, Shadow. It’s a simple word. Birgide.”

“Terafin.”

“How familiar are you with my forest?”

“More familiar than any other member of your House—but that is not, sadly, saying much. I have new classification schema for the trees that I’ve encountered, and also for some of the flowers. I have not—”

She really had spent time in the Order of Knowledge, Jewel thought, as she raised one hand, cutting off the rest of the words. “I see the heart of my lands reflected in your eyes; I see the shadow of the tree of fire beyond the edge of your feet. It seems to follow you—the shadow, I mean.” She gestured as the Warden of Nightmare leaped.

The branches of the
Ellariannatte
twined, instantly, above his head. The sky could be seen in blue slivers between the intersections of bark and leaves. The Warden’s wings were not decorative; he lashed out with the left wing. Bark and splinters scattered, and the glimpse of sky grew larger.

There were more trees than wings; the canopy shifted and the gap closed. This time, the branches burned—and when the wings struck again, the flames latched onto dark feathers the length of Jewel’s arm.

The Warden shed those feathers.

“You cannot call the wind here,” Jewel told him softly. “Nor wake the earth. There is a price to be paid for passage through these lands, and you have not paid it.”

“Nor will I.”

Shianne spoke into the silence that followed his words. “Then, Warden, you will never leave them. The choice is yours—and hers.”

The Warden’s smile was ice and shadow. “She is not as you are—or were. These lands—”

“Are hers. The trees speak her name with reverence. The earth is silent beneath our feet. The fire continues to burn, but consumes nothing. Even the air is gentled, where it stirs. I do not know the extent of this domain—but I know that you should never have been able to trespass where you were forbidden entry.

“You mean her to believe that her hold over her own lands is weak and easily broken.”

The Warden did not reply.

“It is not. I do not understand how you came to be here.”

“I have explained how, Lady.”

“Forgive me for my lack of clarity. I do not understand how you can traverse the dreams of my brethren.”

“Do you not, Shandallarian? Ah, but you absented yourself from these lands long before the Sleepers fell, and their kin do not speak of them at all. You do not know who sleeps beneath the streets of this crowded, mortal city. Let me tell you their names.”

“You will not speak them here. You will not speak them
at all
.”

The Warden laughed, the sound so warm, so full, it reverberated almost literally through the ground; even the flames that now surrounded him shivered in place, as if listening.

“I am the only one present who can safely do so,” he told Shianne. “And I have already said my purpose is not to wake them. The Lord of the Hells did not expect you; I see the hand of another in this. A long hand, and subtle.” He drew his wings in and his body became even less corporeal. It did not, however, fade. “Do not attempt to imprison me; you will not care for the results.”

“I will not leave you to work against my kin,” Jewel replied. “You have said that the dreams of the Sleepers touch all lands in some fashion. I cannot stop them from dreaming—and I do not wish them to wake, although their waking would end your passage through these lands, or any others. Did you,” she continued, “send Darranatos to us, as well?”

He did not answer.

 • • • 

She wanted to kill him. She had let him go once—but no, she thought, that was not entirely the truth. As she stood, surrounded by friends and comrades and as close to kin as life had allowed her, she felt the forest blanket her like a living thing. It
was
hers. It was as much hers as the apartment in the twenty-fifth holding had been; it was
more
hers than House Terafin, although she had kept her promise and become its ruler.

It was den-kin, to Jewel. And it was not. She could give it commands. It would warp and twist itself to obey them. She had no sense that it trusted her, though. She did not know trees; she did not know forests. She knew that this was one, but knew that it was far more flexible.

And she knew, when she left, that it would be as Finch had become. It would do what it thought she needed, and wanted.

But what, in the end, did something ancient and immortal—in essence, if not in disparate parts—understand of what she wanted? What could she build, what could she make, that would carry the whole of her intent? She understood, now, that her den-kin, in her absence, would face demons and assassins—just as she had.

And she understood, as well, that they were not seer-born. They were not Sen. They were not, in any way, talent-born. They had followed, from almost the first day, where she led. Oh, they’d argued, and they’d dragged their heels, and on occasion, they’d ignored her less visceral commands. She’d let them. She’d wanted friends. Family. And no friends, no family, had ever been perfect followers. They’d had minds and desires and tempers of their own.

Dreams of their own.

They had dreams of their own, now. While she stood here, she could protect those dreams. Wind rippled through leaves above her head; the sound formed almost audible whispers, cold whispers.

“Yes, I know,” she replied. All of their small dreams would end if she would not leave Terafin. Even her own.

She lifted her chin. Turned to face Finch. Perhaps she had spent enough time in the wilderness to which the Oracle had sent her that her talent had been sharpened; she could see Finch in meetings with—she grimaced—Jarven. And Haval. She could see Finch consulting with Teller, which was not a surprise, and
Jester
, which was. Jester.

She could see the tail end of a letter Finch was penning by lamplight, in the confines of her personal rooms in the West Wing. She could even see the recipient; it made her uneasy. Ruby? Ruby ATerafin? Jewel herself would confront Ruby directly—or threaten her—only
after
Ruby had chosen to make the first move. She understood Ruby well enough to defend her own interests, and Ruby was cautious when dealing with someone who might see the future; Ruby’s understanding of Jewel’s talent was imprecise, and Jewel had never chosen to correct it.

Finch did not have that chimera.

Jewel did not have Finch’s experience in the Merchant Authority—and, in fact, had come to rely on it in her own work. She could not, from the endless winter of the hidden world, give Finch orders or—or check her work, a thought which caused a grimace. In truth, it was not something she had worried about, on the road; she had worried about the Oracle. About Carver.

Carver.

She wanted to tell Finch, then. But it was not the time for either confession or imperfect absolution—if absolution would be offered. Jester was here, after all. She wanted a vision of Finch in the future that showed her safe and in control of the vast Terafin interests—but of course, there was nothing. Just Finch as she was now, waiting, clear-eyed and quietly resolute. She was the only person who had crossed the invisible barrier that separated the two groups to stand by Jewel’s side.

Trust was hard. No, trusting Finch was easy. Trusting that people who would try—time and again—to have her killed would fail was not. But she had left Terafin in Finch’s hands, and she understood that, imperfect as they
both
were, there were no better hands to leave it in.

Finch could not, however, rule
these
lands. She could not intrigue, collude with, or demand. If the forest was aware of Finch at all—and it was—it was aware of her because of Jewel’s attachment and regard.

There was only one other person in this clearing that demanded the attention of the trees and the earth in which their roots were planted, and Jewel looked across the clearing toward her. Birgide Viranyi. Birgide.
Astari
, for gods’ sake.

Yet she had granted this woman permission to enter her forest. Why? She struggled to remember.

 • • • 

Birgide felt the breeze in the clearing shift. Winter, she had seen in a brief glimpse as The Terafin had returned to her lands; she could now feel it. It stung her exposed cheeks as she faced the Terafin. Without intent, she had fallen into the position she adopted when standing in front of Duvari. Duvari had raised inscrutability—and the discomfort it caused those who had the full force of his attention—to a fine, fine art.

She—like any
Astari
—therefore did her best to adhere to the governing—and unwritten—rules handed down by the Lord of the Compact. She chose a course of action, after examining all known facts; she threw conscious effort into intelligent guesswork, and, in the end, having completed her assignment and been called upon to justify those choices, she prayed.

This felt very like those debriefings, except she had no report to make; she had no decisions to justify. She had not deliberately chosen to bring the dining party to the forest. She had not deliberately chosen to enter The Terafin’s personal chambers—rooms absolutely forbidden to a lowly gardener in the Household Staff without express invitation.

She had offered her service to the forest itself—but even that, she could not justify, not in words. Words had been superfluous. Perhaps, she thought, understanding was superfluous as well. What she had wanted in that moment was to guard and protect
these
lands. She had barely given a thought to the woman who ruled them.

She had even accepted the House Name—and she thought, facing Jewel Markess ATerafin, that that had been a tactical error. She could not imagine this woman offering Birgide, whom she knew to be a member of the
Astari
, the protection of Terafin. The name, she could forgo, in the end.

The forest?

Never. Never, while she lived. Knowing this, she straightened the line of her shoulders, tightened the line of her jaw, lifted her chin.

Will I survive, if she doesn’t want me?
she asked.

And the breeze answered. No.

 • • • 

Birgide was not den-kin. She was of an age with the den, but she had not come through the streets of the twenty-fifth holding; had not broken laws to survive starvation in the long, harsh passage. Yet the faded scars she bore—those visible, Jewel had no doubt that many similar were harbored beneath her clothing—implied a life that was just as difficult.

More so. Birgide did not seem to have friends or family in this city. Or any city.

You are so certain?

No one who has actual friends would ever serve Duvari
.

Avandar was amused. Very little in the past few days had amused him.

She’s part of this forest.

You are certain?
It was a question—but also, a test. Avandar had his own opinions, and he didn’t choose to share them.

She was. She had given Birgide permission to enter—and study—the
Ellariannatte
, and anything else that grew in the hidden woods. And why? Partly to spite Duvari, as he so clearly disliked the idea. She accepted it. And accepted, as well, that important events grew out of the pettiest of motivations if one were not cautious.

But if spite had been some part of her decision, it had not been the whole of it, and she accepted that, too. She did not know Birgide. She had made her decision on an acquaintance of perhaps an hour. Birgide had been quiet and reserved. Her determination to do what Duvari did not want had given Jewel information about Duvari, as well. Until that moment, it would not have occurred to her that any of the
Astari
would work against his clearly stated preferences for their own benefit.

And Birgide had wanted to be among those trees. She wanted to be beneath their boughs. She was a botanist, a member of the Order of Knowledge. But it was not to write papers over which she could argue with other members of that Order that she had desired Jewel’s permission. Jewel was almost certain that Birgide would never write those papers—and that those papers would be in high demand, even among the magi.

You don’t serve me
.

To Jewel’s surprise, Birgide said, “That was not my intent. But the forest is yours, and it serves you.”

And you?

Birgide clasped hands behind her back. “I have done things in my service to other masters that you would never countenance. I will not say that I was only following orders, and if that is what you think, you do not understand the
Astari
.” She spoke the word aloud as if testing its weight on her tongue. “I have read every file in the archives that references House Terafin. One or two were of particular interest to me. I know what you are.

“I know where you came from. I know who your friends are. I know that you consider them kin. They’ve always been your weakness. I believe Councillor Haerrad once attempted to use them against you. Teller, wasn’t it?”