Oracle: The House War: Book Six (92 page)

This was not the height of respect. The fox made a distinctly human “tsking” noise. “You have forgotten your manners.”

“We forget
nothing
.”

“Is it possible that you are attempting to be rude on purpose, Eldest? I am surprised.”

“And
disappointed
. Yes, yesssssss.” Shadow dug clods of dirt from the ground. “What do
you
want?”

“To look at the boy. With your permission.”

The cat hissed. The Terafin, however, said, “You have
my
permission, for what it’s worth.”

Sullen cat noises all around. “She never lets us have
any
fun,” the white cat said.

“I’ve seen your idea of fun. I’ve signed off on expense requests as a result.” The Terafin pushed hair out of her eyes before folding her arms and glaring down—or rather, across—at the cats. Birgide was a little surprised when they moved out of the way of the much smaller fox. The Terafin then turned her back on the cats.

She faced Finch, lifting her hands.

Finch chose to sign, as well. She also chose to step away from The Terafin she served, to return to the group she had left. “Don’t,” she told the Terafin, “sacrifice yourself. Don’t believe that it’s necessary. Don’t let
anyone
talk you into anything like it—I’ll regret remaining behind for the rest of my natural life.”

Teller put an arm around her shoulder as she drew close to him. He said nothing. No one spoke—if one discounted the murmured complaints of the cats and the continuous drone of the insects—for a long moment.

It was Jarven ATerafin who broke the silence that had become awkward. “It has been a very interesting day.”

It had—but The Terafin was not impressed by the observation. This appeared to amuse the Terafin merchant.

 • • • 

Haval understood immediately that there had been a gap in his perception of events. He was certain Jarven understood it as well, but had chosen not to take offense. Both men had seen—and heard—enough.

“Jewel.” Although he was standing beside Haerrad, Haval chose the more intimate form of address—in large part because he wanted her attention.

He had it.

It was almost work to see her as she was: The Terafin. Ruler of one of the most powerful of The Ten, but seer-born on top of that. Yet she looked bedraggled and almost exhausted, and there were shadows in her face that had not existed when she had set out upon the strange path that had led her here.

He wondered, then, if Carver were dead. He did not ask. She had gained one companion in her travels, and had not lost any. Given demons and the scion of gods, he considered this a triumph—and knew she would never be pragmatic enough to agree.

He had never had children; it had been Hannerle’s one regret. He had always insisted that he did not want them, and she had never believed him—largely because it wasn’t true. Jewel was not a child. She was not his child. He had always been very clear on that. He was not, as Hectore of Araven so decidedly was, a man given to sentimental attachment. In his younger years, Haval had sent men and women younger than Jewel to their probable deaths without hesitation. He was surprised, given the stakes as he understood them, to feel hesitation now.

He had never offered her comfort. Comfort was not what she required of him. And that, too, he regretted. All of their history lay between them when she turned to meet his gaze. He clasped his hands behind his back and stepped forward, shedding the patina of well-to-do merchant.

“You are wasting time that you do not have.”

She stiffened, but of course she would. Her sense of home—and her longing for it—had always been her weakness.

“Is there any information that we require to do our duties in your absence?” He pinched the bridge of his nose at the expression that stole across her features. “Please do not tell me that you have not considered this in the time you have been standing here.”

“You may have noticed that I was occupied with the Warden of Dreams,” she replied.

Haval was surprised when Finch stepped on his foot. He did not acknowledge it. He was less surprised when Jester sauntered over, but ignored this as well. “You will be much occupied in the future; it does not take a seer to understand this. Finch will, as you have guessed, declare herself regent.”

“She will not,” Haerrad said quietly.

Haerrad had Jewel’s full attention the moment he opened his mouth. “Oh?”

“She will be declared regent. The House Council will meet on the morrow.”

Finch signed.
Not my plan
.

“And at that council meeting?”

“I will nominate her as regent.”

Silence.

“I am aware that I owe a debt. I will pay it. Your Finch has never had aspirations or ambitions that would interfere with mine. I have oft considered her as much right-kin as Teller. She does not have the odious Barston as lap dog; she does, however, have Jarven. I will,” he repeated, “nominate her. Sabienne will second.”

“With one day’s notice, you can’t guarantee—”

“I can.” He folded his arms, much as Jewel’s were folded; on Haerrad the gesture looked both definitive and threatening.

Jewel did not want to be in Haerrad’s debt. She did not want to rely on him. She had long hated the Terafin Councillor. She surprised Haval; she accepted his gesture with grace—and even the patina of gratitude. “I will support Finch as regent. I will not offer my support to you as Terafin—but it has become clear that my support would be irrelevant. I am not a man who enjoys irrelevance.”

“And in return for this?”

He smiled. It was like a scar. “We will discuss that when you return.”

Haval was surprised. Jewel, he noted with approval, was suspicious.

“But I want free reign to pursue one or two of my own personal agendas.”

This, she expected.

“And I want no censure of that pursuit.”

“You will not involve my kin in your pursuits.”

He said nothing. For Jewel, it was a terrifying nothing. She did not respond immediately; she was choosing her words with more care. It was late, for that.

“If it will comfort you at all,” Haerrad continued, in a tone which implied that The Terafin should be above need for anything as petty as comfort, “I have a bone to pick with Rymark.”

“I have a bone to pick with him myself.”

“Then return quickly, Terafin.” He bowed. Interesting. Haval could not recall Haerrad offering her that gesture before.

 • • • 

Jewel, however, inclined her head. She then frowned and looked down at her feet; a small fox was dancing a figure eight around them. She glanced at Birgide.

“We have done what we can,” the fox said. “And we will honor the Warden of Dreams as a guest for as long as you desire it. But the boy is flagging. What he has done is not what was done to bring demons here or send them to you; it is more subtle and more complex.

“But he exerts dominion over a body that does not naturally fall into the patterns you desire.”

“Will we return to the exact same place we left?”

“That will be up to the boy—and to you. He will require rest.”

“Terafin,” Torvan said, interrupting the small animal.

“Birgide is to be allowed the same leeway that Meralonne is allowed, in my absence. And,” she added, “Andrei as well.”

“Hectore of Araven?”

“They come as a pair.” She turned to Shianne. “Lady.”

Shianne nodded. She lifted her face toward the skies and opened her mouth on a word that shattered the light above the gathering as if it were fragile glass. Red broke and cracked; blue shuddered. The stunning and ethereal impression of fireworks caught in time across the width of the sky seemed to melt. Only Avandar’s shields remained.

“I am sorry,” Shianne said to Jewel. “I understand that time is now of the essence.”

Jewel said nothing. Blue lightning and red ceased to flash. The beings responsible for its fall were motionless. But they looked, Jewel thought, toward a forest that had become almost inconsequential, and she knew what they saw.

For her part, there was reverence and sorrow in equal measure.

Meralonne was the first to land, turning his back upon the enemy who had, until this moment, demanded the whole of his attention. But he had always been that way. Only in combats such as these did he seem to be fully alive.

The joy of the fight had deserted him.

Not even when Jewel had spoken of the single tree she carried had he looked so devastated. She turned to Shianne, and then turned away. Had it been up to her, she would have ordered everyone to leave the forest—to leave them to their greetings, or their recriminations. But she could not. She returned to Adam’s side. Night tipped her over when she crouched down and placed her hands over his hands, as she had in the winter forest.

“Terafin, what have you done?” Meralonne’s voice. Jewel lifted her head and turned, although she did not rise.

“Illaraphaniel—”

She heard footsteps, which she expected. And a voice that was not Meralonne’s, which she had not.

“Illaraphaniel,” the fox said. “Jewel. We will guard the boy. Understand, Illaraphaniel, that we serve her; we will protect her while even a single tree remains.”

“How is it that you are here?”

“Ask, rather, how it is that our master is. We do not move; we do not range freely, as you and your kin always did. We did not leave this place; you did. You, and your White Lady, and your brothers. But even before you departed for your winters and your wars, Shianne was gone.”

Jewel rose. Kallandras and Celleriant now stood to one side of her cats; Angel and Terrick, to the other. They watched, impassive, as Meralonne APhaniel turned, demons forgotten, to face Shianne. She waited. Her skin was white as snow, white as death, her eyes shimmering. Her hands rested upon the top curve of her belly, her pregnancy more pronounced, her condition a silent statement.

“What have you done?” he whispered.

“Did you not know?” was her soft response. “Did you not know why we vanished? Did she not tell you, any of you?”

He was stiff, as pale as she, but when she lifted her chin, he crossed the distance between them and caught both of her hands in his own.

“This is not recent, this condition,” she continued, when he did not speak. “I am, as you are, of the White Lady. I was told that a child of mine might free her—but the art of creation was never in my hands—not in that fashion. I tried,” she added softly. “I tried for centuries; so, too, my sisters. But we could not do what she could do.”

“Of course not.”

“Had you been told, Illaraphaniel, that such a child would be the only thing that would stand between our lady and her eternal imprisonment, would you not have
tried?
”

“You look so like her,” he said, and Jewel wondered if that would be the whole of his reply. “So like her. And it has been so long.” He bowed his head. Jewel had never seen him take that posture; it was exquisitely uncomfortable to watch. “We failed her. She sent us from her side. Until the moment that we redeem ourselves, we cannot return. And there has been no redemption—no possibility of it. Yes, Shianne. Yes, I would have tried, even if failure was certain. What else could I do?”

She tightened her grip on his hands. “We tried. And one day, in the weeping hollows, one of the gods approached me.”

He stiffened.

“No, not that god. He did not ask that I love or follow him; he did not ask anything of me—and perhaps, perhaps I should have known. He was always a strange, odd creature—like to the gods and yet unlike them; he paid mind to the things he created, even after the fact; he demanded no respect and no worship. I did not understand him, I confess—but I did not fear him.

“And he said there was a way—a way to create the child that would be needed. But because I was not as gods were—as he, as the White Lady—it would destroy me.” She laughed, and Jewel was surprised to see that she was genuinely amused. Even Meralonne smiled. “He told me that I would die. Not immediately, not all at once—but that I would simply end, as if that would be a deterrent. And after some time I accepted that fate.

“This child,” she said softly, “is possibly my final gift to her. I do not understand all of what has come to pass. I see Farrianalle in the air above us, and I know him. I understand that he chose the Lord of the Hells over the White Lady—but I cannot understand it. I see it, but I cannot believe that what I see is the truth. And you—Illaraphaniel—alone of four, you remained true to the White Lady.”

“They were like you, Shianne. Like you. They could not see that the orders given would bring anything but pain and harm to the White Lady. They would have died—as you or I—a hundred times, a thousand, in her service. But they could not, in the end, be asked to injure her themselves.”

“Even if she commanded it?”

“Did she not command you to kill the child you bear and return to her?”

Silence, then.

Jewel felt the cold.

“It was far too late, for me,” Shianne told him softly. “Far too late. If the child within me perished now, it would not save me. I walk to death, Illaraphaniel. I desire only that I should not reach it before I have reached her.” She hesitated, and then said, “I did not believe that my choice would harm her, even given our natures: the god is her parent.”

“And better do I understand her anger, now.”

“Will you kill me?” she asked. “I fear that young Celleriant would, if given the chance.”

“He would not dare to harm you. If you live, now, it is only because the White Lady wished to preserve you. I will not ask how she managed this; I can guess. And Shianne—in the end, it may be only your presence that grants the freedom she has lost. You may reach her, where all others would fail, if you walk in Jewel Markess ATerafin’s footsteps.”

“Yes. That, too, I was told.”

“I do not think she will be happy,” he said quietly.

Of all the things said, this struck her most sharply; the line of her chin shifted. “I will bear her anger and her rage. If she kills me, I will accept it—I
am
of her.” She lifted Meralonne’s slender hands. “If you will kill Farrianalle, you must go; he will leave, soon. The forest will not contain him.”