Oracle: The House War: Book Six (90 page)

Jewel said nothing.

“But I understand that they have also been your strength.” Birgide smiled. It was a slight, almost bitter expression, but it was turned inward. “I never had the strength to take that risk. I learned to stand alone. I learned not to resent it. All of my strength—what little there was of it—came in moments of isolation. And all of my peace, as well.

“It was in places like this that I hid.”

“You came to my forest—to hide?”

Birgide’s smile deepened, its texture changing, as she surveyed the stand of trees and everything they enclosed; the irony was lost on neither woman. “I came,” she said, “because it felt like the essence of every forest in which I have ever sheltered. I came because here, the
Ellariannatte
grow. I offered—in whatever way such offers are entertained—to lay down my life in husbandry of what grows here.” She lifted her hand.

Jewel could see the red, raw, angry scar that occupied almost the whole of her palm; it was a small wonder that she could still use that hand.

“I do not know what test was required of you,” Birgide continued.

“The test—my test—hasn’t come yet.” Jewel spoke before considering the words with any deliberation, but understood the moment she spoke them that they were true. So, too, was the certainty that the sacrifice demanded of her had yet to be determined; she was certain it existed.

Certain that, in the end, Birgide’s scar would look like comfort.

“Do you understand how the power of this forest works?”

“No.” That was a lie. “. . . Not in a way that I can explain.” That, though, was true. Birgide was, and would always be, cautious.

“What have your archives taught you, about me?”

Birgide was silent.

“About Terafin?”

“They are reports. They give a sketch, a glimpse; they give fact as if truth could be compressed into simple, declarative statements. I have learned more about Terafin—and its ruler—working on your Household Staff than I could from reports, even Duvari’s. Working with your den has given me insight into what we might expect from you, and even why. It is not . . . what the forest understands. It is not what the forest knows. The forest is not you, Terafin. Nor,” she added, “is it me.”

And what the wilderness would—or could—do in Jewel’s absence had been, and would be, tested. She glanced at the Warden of Dream and Nightmare, shimmering in his state of beautiful, deadly half-existence.

The forest responded to her, and her will, when she walked beneath its boughs. It had since the moment she had planted the three leaves she had taken from the forest surrounding the fortress of the Winter King. It had responded to her visceral fear for the fate of the dreamers enmeshed in the scheme of the Warden of Dreams, gathering them and entertaining them while they waited to wake. But she had been resident in the manse at that time.

She would not be resident in the foreseeable future.

She glanced, again, at the Warden of Dream and Nightmare.

The forest knew, of course. It understood her fear. It had gathered her den—and one loathsome visitor—and brought them to the seat of ancient power, as if it had known that Jewel would return. And it had brought Birgide, its chosen defender, as if it also knew that she could not remain.

And of course, she thought, as she caught movement in the distance, beyond Birgide’s straight back, they came.

 • • • 

A man. A woman. Tall, slender, supple in the way of young trees, with eyes that were all of a color that white had never touched. They looked, to Jewel, like the essence of the forest, if that forest had decided, for a small span, to take mortal form. And even then, no eyes could mistake them for humans.

The gold of their skin was paler than it had been the first time she had encountered them; the blue of their eyes was deeper—not noon sky, but one that was heading into—or out of—evening. They were not singing now, or laughing; they did not dance. Nothing about them implied festivity or joy.

She was surprised at how the absence stung.

They bowed—to Jewel; she had the whole of their attention.

“Lord of the Green,” the man said, although the woman—if gender was even relevant to trees—rose first.

Silence. Jewel glanced beyond them to the forest she had unwittingly planted in what seemed a different life. “What have you done?”

“We understand, Lord, that you cannot walk these lands; we understand why. The winter, slight and trembling though it is, speaks the truth of your path to us. But we knew, when you left, that you would return. We are not like you; even should we desire to do so, we cannot easily leave the places in which our roots grow deep. We can sense disturbances; in some cases, we can act against them—but we do not understand the whole of your will, and we cannot, therefore, stand as guardians to it.

“You have given leave to many, many mortals to enter the heart of your domain; we have seen this and marked it. We do not understand the care you take to preserve the lives of those you do not know or did not choose to bless—but we have not taken lives in pursuit of your lands. Those who have not been given that permission, we turn away; they cannot find true paths on which to walk.

“But we are aware of the Warden of Dreams. We are not as you are. We wake for long seasons, and sleep for longer. It has been winter for many, many years. Had you not walked these lands, none of us would be awake. But most, Terafin, still sleep. When we sleep, we are not without power and not without defense.” She fell silent.

Her companion, eyes unblinking blue, took up the thread of her explanation. “You cannot leave yourself here when you travel.” It was said with the faintest hint of curiosity and surprise.

Jewel didn’t ask if others before her could—or had. Instead, she inclined her head. Her hands were loose fists—and that took effort. She understood that were she to remain here, there would be no Warden of Dreams, and no demonic assassins aimed at the only family she had. There would be assassins, of course. She couldn’t prevent that. But they were few and far between.

She couldn’t move the occupants of the West Wing into her personal chambers. She couldn’t ask them to pitch tents in the forest behind the manse. Even if she could, she knew that Finch would not budge. She would apologize; she would fidget; she would confess her fears and terrors. But they would not move her.

And if she ordered it?

“Obedience,” the man said, “is not a trait you have ever highly prized. You do not,” he added, glancing pointedly at the cats, “select for it or demand it.” He glanced at his companion, and then said, “Love is one of those traits. But mortal love is not the love of the gods or the ancient; it is small and fierce and fickle. We do not understand the things you value. We can look at your people, and we can understand the
who
, but never the why. And yet we also understand that their loss, their deaths, will diminish you. An ax taken to your trees would cause less harm, unless it were wielded by Cartanis in a fury.” He turned, at last, to Birgide Viranyi. “We could hear her when she walked the path. She asked for permission to do so, and you granted it. She has not seen the whole of your lands—but she has seen all that you have seen.

“We hear her voice when she speaks. We hear it when she hums; she will not break the silence with song. We would sing with her,” he added, “but cannot, not yet. She bears the mark of war on her palm.”

Jewel frowned.

“The tree of fire,” was the gentle explanation. “It came to you at the hands of your enemies; it was meant to kill you. You chose to plant it. You have used it as shield and sword, both. She is not as you are. We understand that. But when she is here, she is
here
. She has killed. She will kill again in the future, if death is necessary. We have given her the gifts she can contain.” When Jewel failed to respond, he said, “You are not here. You cannot be here. You have left your kin in command of your people and their home; we thought to correct an oversight.”

“You
made her warden
to correct an
oversight?
” Shadow was literally spitting in outrage. He made clear just how very stupid he thought the trees were; Jewel thought his surprise genuine. The outrage certainly was.

“It was only thus,” the woman replied, “that she could hear us and call us, however imperfectly. She is mortal, Eldest.”

“She is
Warden!
”

The woman said, ignoring Shadow’s outburst far more effectively than her companion, “We chose as you would choose.”

Jewel would not have chosen Birgide. She was not certain she would have chosen anyone. “What do you mean?”

“You have your kin, and they are the kin of your choice; you know they will never harm you. Ah, I am clumsy. You know they will never attempt to harm you. They will defend what you have built; they will value it, as you value it.”

“And you—”

The woman shook her head. “We are singular and plural; we are tree and forest. What you have built, we could not build; the need for it is beyond us. We attempted to choose a guardian as we perceive you have chosen them—by experience and instinct and observation. She values us. She is not
of
us, nor will she ever be—but it would grieve her to lose us or see us harmed or diminished. And yet, should the need arise, she would do so.

“We do not understand your love. But it has informed your choices of guardians—your Chosen, your den. And if we must league with mortals, if we must make ourselves vulnerable to their whim and dictate, we thought to choose—for ourselves—as you have chosen for yourself. Our choice may be imperfect; we do not understand mortality well, and our understanding is tied to yours. Have we displeased you? Have we failed you?”

Shadow continued with his hissing, which featured his characteristic certainty that everything alive in the world was stupid.

“You are not pleased with our choice?” the woman asked.

Jewel exhaled. Had she been holding her breath? She was no longer certain. “This place,” she said, moving one arm in a wide arc, “was mine. It wasn’t real to me the way the Terafin manse is, and was. It was like a—like a dream. A dream of power. A way of standing against the demons and the Wild Hunt and the firstborn. It was both unknown
and
safe.

“It almost killed me,” she continued. “If it’s part of me, there’s part of me that wants me dead. Fair enough. Dangerous or no, it’s mine in a way that even my kin can’t be.” She lowered her chin. “But there’s a reason my kin can’t be mine in that way. Nothing living can. Not even the forest.

“There is nothing wrong with the choice that you made. You made it for yourself, and you made it the way I would have, had I been you. Shadow, complain quietly. I can’t hear myself think.”

“You
don’t
think!”

“And maybe I need that reminder. You are not like us. You will never be like us. But you’re not objects or weapons that can simply be lifted and pointed or swung. I gave Birgide Viranyi permission to enter my forest because she wanted it so badly—and not in the bad way. She doesn’t look like a person who smiles a lot; she doesn’t look like a person who’s known much in the way of joy. I blame her boss,” she added, for Birgide’s sake. “And I thought I could both spite
him
and give her some small glimpse at the wonder—of you.”

She turned, at last, to Birgide Viranyi: a stranger. A stranger who could touch the power of the wilderness—and a stranger, Jewel thought, who didn’t
fear
it.

“Yes,” the woman said quietly. “Her fear is
for
, not
of
. She trusts herself in a way that you do not.”

Birgide, restless, opened her mouth.

“—You trust yourself with what you have been given, and what you have vowed. If you do not trust yourself among your own kin, that is hardly relevant to us. You would give the joy you feel in our lives to every person you meet—and many that you will never meet. Trust has little meaning to us—and perhaps you will come to understand that. Does one trust the trees in your Common? Does one trust the foliage in your courtyard gardens?

“And yet, even so, we would bloom, for you. We would give you spring and summer and even autumn, although that would be bittersweet.”

And for me? Jewel thought.

“No, Terafin,” was the grave reply. “We would die for you.”

“The Warden of Dreams was not entirely truthful, was he?” Jewel asked quietly, as if she had not heard the quiet, declarative statement. She had. But she thought she would rather have joy than death; she could not say this. It seemed too petty.

The woman said, “He is not your enemy.”

“Anyone—
anyone
—who seeks to harm my family is my enemy.”

“In future, should he survive, he may well be your ally. Remember this.” The woman bowed. The man, however, turned toward Birgide. “She accepted the offer of the House Name. It was made by . . . Jester? I believe that is what you call him. Accept the service she has offered, Terafin—or reject it, as is your right.”

 • • • 

Jewel lifted her hand almost reflexively; it was ringless. No one who did not know her would know that she was The Terafin; the proof of that office, she had left behind. She lowered that hand, remembering. She would never have said she was attached to the ring itself; it was heavy and ostentatious. But clearly, attached or no, she had become accustomed to its presence. “Birgide Viranyi ATerafin.”

Birgide’s face was not expressionless. Jewel could not, however, identify all that she saw shift the woman’s features. “Terafin.” She started to kneel; Jewel’s imperative gesture forbade it. If there was time for ceremony and official groveling, now was not it. Now had not been the time for the conversation, either—but time passed so slowly here, no one else had fully turned to bear witness to the two women and their immortal companions.

Not even the Warden of Dreams.

“Wake the forest.”

 • • • 

The appearance of Haerrad had not surprised Birgide Viranyi; neither had his demonic possession. The appearance of the Araven servant—a creature she could barely force herself to look at—had terrified her, but conversely, had caused no shock. She had not known that she would take the entire dinner party—possibly the room itself—into the heart of The Terafin’s forest, and yet, she had not been truly surprised to find herself there.