“They can’t kill you.”
“Can they not?” The smile the Oracle offered as she spoke was markedly different. “Perhaps you are correct. But they can try, and if they are not to be feared, they are oft to be dreaded. They have never been entirely predictable creatures. Not even the wise could have predicted the results of the Winter King’s careful planning; what he wrought, we do not fully understand.”
Shadow’s eyes were golden; they were almost the same hue as the eyes of the god-born. Almost, but not quite. “Tell her,” he said to Jewel, voice almost a growl, “that we serve you when we’re with you.”
Jewel, however, frowned. “The Winter King considered the cats his greatest work. Did he not create them?”
Snow howled in outrage. Night was too dumbfounded to find his voice. Shadow, however, hissed.
“They are your responsibility, Terafin. I do not think it would be wise to leave them here. They are not, in my opinion, in danger where you will walk—but you have seen the danger they can be, if I am not mistaken.”
Adam stiffened. Jewel lifted a hand in den-sign, and he held his peace. Adam, more than anyone present, understood the danger the cats represented; Shadow had almost killed her at the behest of the Warden of Dreams. Had it not been for Adam’s presence, she would have died.
She knew it. She knew that the cats were deadly; she had always understood that. But Duster had been deadly as well, and Duster had been part of her home. “I don’t want to leave them behind,” she said quietly.
“I judge their presence a risk. You do not know the ways in which that risk might present itself—but such ignorance, even to one seer-born—is part of life. Only the dead are predictable—and even then, they are oft misunderstood.
“Do not seek this path if you seek certainty. A glimpse of the future—even a future of your choosing—will not quell doubt. Doubt exists where there is life and breath to draw it. Only the dead have no doubts.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” Jewel replied, thinking—for the first time in months—of the Terafin spirit.
“No, daughter, but I am. I will accept the presence of your cats if you will surrender to me some token as surety of their behavior.”
“Pardon?”
Terrick now cleared his throat. “Pretend that this is, for the moment, the Merchant Authority. You have asked for leave to route your caravans through passages that are not Imperial in origin. The men who own those passages do not know you; they do not trust you.
“You post a bond as a financial guarantee of your intent. If the merchants in your caravan contravene the accepted codes of behavior in the lands they traverse, the bond is forfeit. If I am not mistaken, this woman is asking you to post such a bond.”
Jewel nodded slowly and turned to look down at the cats. They met her gaze with the faux-innocence she found so exasperating—and, in the end, so endearing. “This,” she said—for the benefit of an entirely absent Teller, “is why I never wanted cats.” Pushing her hair out of her eyes, she exhaled. “Avandar, can you get the gem bag from my pack?”
Avandar nodded, but before he could carry out her request, the Oracle lifted a hand. “If the analogy Terrick has offered is apt, it is inexact.”
The Northerner stiffened slightly; in no other way did he betray the surprise his name on the Oracle’s tongue had caused.
“There is no monetary component to what you must now do; no exchange of gold awaits you at the end of your journey. If you benefit, it will not be in a way that mortals will easily understand—and if they did, Terafin, you might become the object of sympathy—or its darker cousin, pity.
“I therefore ask that you leave, as surety, an item of value to you. The item might be priceless among your kind; it might be worthless among your kind.”
“Everything I value with which I might part, I left at home,” Jewel replied. “All of the things I now carry with me, I carry because they might be of practical use.” She glanced at her wrist, where three strands of winter hair were twined in a near-invisible bracelet. “If I’m to have any hope of returning to a home that still stands, I can’t leave them with you. I brought gems as trade if the road leads us back to mortal lands. We’ve brought food of the type that is meant for long, sustained travels.
“I have my companions, and I will not leave them behind; nor would I willingly leave them in your lands while I ventured into the wilderness. Even if I was willing to do so, they are not my possessions. I don’t own them, and I cannot simply give them away as a gesture of good faith.” If the Oracle had been willing to take the gems, Jewel would have left a greater part of their number in her hands; she’d made clear she was not.
What else did she now carry?
She could not part with Ariane’s gift. She considered the leaves she had taken from her forest, and even opened her pouch to remove them—but her hand froze before she’d unbuckled it. Not those, then. What else of value did she have? She had the dress Snow made. She had worn it once, and she was not in a hurry to don it again. The problem with the dress—aside from its obvious importance to Snow—was that she did not truly value it.
She wore one necklace. The links, as she drew it up from the confines of her traveling clothes, were warm where they’d lain so long against skin. It was the necklace Snow had given her to wear with the dress he had made. The pendant, in this room, seemed to pulse like an exposed heart; it was not a comforting sight.
“No,” the Oracle said, before she had pulled the pendant clear. “Not that. I will not question your effrontery in wearing it, and I will not refuse you passage in spite of its presence—but the danger is now entirely yours to bear. Cats will leave all manner of things in their wake, but in general, the wise do not wear them.” As she spoke, she glanced at Snow, who appeared to have lost a few inches of height.
He muttered.
“You are bold,” she told him. “But it is left to others to bear the weight of your momentary whims.” She fell silent as Snow continued to lose height and bearing.
Jewel glanced, last, at her empty palms. In the oddly muted light of the statuary, the gold of the two rings she wore made her hands look unaccountably white and colorless, as if they had never seen sunlight.
Rings. Two rings.
She turned her hands over, although examination wasn’t necessary. The ring on her right had been a gift from Amarais, an inheritance of a kind that could not be laid out in wills and signed testaments. Left in the center of the fount that was the justified pride of the Terafin terrace, it would have remained hidden in perpetuity to any eyes that weren’t Jewel’s.
Jewel had never completely understood why Amarais had chosen to hide one ring and one sword—a fine sword, but of the kind that the patriciate commonly owned—in the center of that fountain; to do so had required all of the magical skill and subtlety Morretz had accumulated over his life.
But she understood why Amarais had left the two items to her. They had belonged to Ararath. They had belonged to Rath. So proud, so angry, he had, in the end, loved them both as he could. And they had loved—and lost him. The ring itself was a signet ring of heavy gold; a stylized H contained rubies at the end points of the Weston letter’s height. One was cracked—it had arrived that way.
Rath was dead. The dead had no need of rings. They had no need of memories, either. Only the living did—but Jewel was still alive. Her right hand closed in a fist as she looked, last, to the ring that adorned her left.
It was the Terafin House ring. Not the ring she had worn for most of her adult life as a Council member, but the House ring itself. There was one, only one, of its kind. She had worn its weight for a scant few months. No, she thought, counting, two months and nineteen days. It was not her possession; it was, in its entirety, the smallest symbol of the office she’d taken. When she died, it would be passed to the woman—or man—who succeeded her.
But she kne
w, as she studied its heavy gold face, sapphires glowing as if displayed in direct sunlight, that this was what the Oracle was waiting for. She had not removed the ring once since she had been acclaimed Terafin. Her hands shook as she removed it now.
No one spoke. Angel briefly touched her arm and gestured. She wanted to shove the ring back onto her finger. She told herself that she could afford to lose Rath’s ring; she couldn’t afford to lose the House signet. She could give away the damn leaves—she had an endless number of them. Even the dress, although she’d have a put-out or enraged white cat to deal with for the rest of their journey. Or the rest of her life.
But the ring rested in her open palm, and her hand was steady as she held it out to the Oracle.
The Oracle nodded. She passed a hand over Jewel’s upturned palm—and the ring it contained—and the ring vanished. She had not touched it. “Yes,” she said softly. “It is always difficult to decide what to leave behind, and often, there are no good choices. I will safeguard your ring to the full extent of my ability to do so. Only if you transgress will it be lost to you forever.”
“What are your rules?” Jewel asked stiffly. “By what laws am I to be bound?”
Shadow snorted in obvious disgust.
Night said, “What did you expect? She’s stupid.”
Even Celleriant was smiling. It was a condescending, arrogant smile.
The Oracle, however, did not appear to notice any of this. “It has been many, many years since a daughter of the ancient cities has approached my realm. Not all who reach its heart choose to accept the challenge offered. But if it will comfort you, know this: none of the supplicants had the luxury of time. Many came alone.
“Isolation is safety, of a kind—but it is not, in the end, your safety.” She turned. The wall, curved and smooth in her absence, waited. She did not point or gesture; she did not speak. Instead, she placed her hands against her chest; Jewel stiffened as they sank beneath the surface of stone robes and stone flesh.
The air was still, the hush expectant; no one in the room, not even the distant Kings, appeared to breathe as the Oracle withdrew a crystal from the center of her chest. The resultant light from its heart flooded the room, washing out the color that remained.
“The more you see, the more there is to fear—but regardless, the future will come. It will shape you, Jewel, if you allow it. But if you are strong enough to pierce the veils of now, you will be allowed, in some small way, to shape it in turn. It is the only gift I offer, and acceptance is costly: it was not meant for mortals.”
“Why,” Jewel asked, breaking the hushed silence, “was it given to us at all?”
“That, I cannot answer.”
“Because you don’t know?”
“Because, daughter, I do not know.”
“You’re reputed to see everything.”
“And so I might, should I so choose—but what is seen is oft misunderstood, as you yourself must know. What is seen at a distance is a glance, no more. Such a glimpse might inspire dread or greed or rage. I see you here, before me, as I saw you when first we met. I understand, in some limited way, what motivates you. But I cannot see the whole of it. I cannot be you.
“And there are things about you, Jewel Markess ATerafin, that I do not think I could fully understand unless I lived the life you have lived in near blindness.”
The wall from which the Oracle had stepped began to shift, stone moving, slowly, as if it were the surface of melting ice.
“And Evayne?”
“Pardon?”
“Evayne. Evayne a’Nolan. Do you understand her?”
“Better, in many ways, than I understand you. She is not what you are, Jewel. She is god-born and bound by geas and bitter, bitter hope. You will speak with her again; perhaps before you have made your choice. I will say this much: she does not choose the roads she walks. What choice she has—and it is imperfect—is what she sees when she walks them.
“If she comes to you, she might be your age. She might be the age you were when you first crossed Terafin’s threshold. She might be your peer, and she might rival Sigurne Mellifas at the height of her many powers. I ask, if she arrives, that you allow her to speak, regardless of age. Where you walk, you take some part of your home with you.
“Where she walks, she is forced to walk in isolation.” She turned to Kallandras. “Be kind.”
He did not reply.
Nor had he need; the stone that had once housed the back half of the Oracle as she was currently constituted was now a whirlpool in miniature.
“I know what you seek, Kallandras. You will not find it where you travel, but if you survive, you will at last be upon the final leg of your long journey. So, too, Evayne.” She held the crystal in her hands aloft, and in its heart, there were roiling clouds and small flashes of light that made them appear a storm in miniature.
That lightning leaped beyond the confines of the crystal to the wall; it struck the heart of vortex. Liquid stone scattered, pushed outward in an oval that solidified to form an arch. It was round, not rectangular; it looked like uneven, melted glass when it ceased motion.
“It is not an easy thing to reach the heart of my lands,” the Oracle said softly. “Reaching them is the first part of your test.” She turned to the Kings and the Exalted, and tendered them a bow that was almost Weston. She did not speak. Instead, she lowered her arms. The crystal remained in cupped palms, like an offering.
“Go,” she told Jewel. “I must remain to close the way.”
Chapter One
5th of Morel, 428 A.A.
Terafin Manse, Averalaan Aramarelas
HANNERLE WAS NOT IN a happy mood. Years in the company of his wife made this clear to Haval, although the rest of the people in this impromptu gathering did not know her well enough to realize it.
On the other hand, she wasn’t angry with them. They had spent the earliest years of their lives—almost half of them—in environments in which anger directed at other people was safety, of a type. Or perhaps they were perceptive enough to realize that the age difference between Hannerle and themselves made it unlikely that they would become targets for her anger.
Looking mildly distressed, Finch stood before Hannerle, her hands enveloped by Haval’s wife’s. “Are you sure you won’t stay?” she asked, squeezing her hands as if Hannerle were a beloved aunt and not a recovered convalescent.
“If I stay much longer,” Hannerle replied, “I’ll forget how to look after myself.”
Finch’s brows rose in mock-derision. “That’s impossible.”
“Trust me, it’s not. The Terafin manse is impressive, but in the end it’s not mine. And there’s very little I can do to make it mine. You let me putter about in the kitchen—but the servants hate it, and can’t say as I blame them. It’s stressful being a guest.”
“Haval, help me.” Finch cast an imploring glance at the clothier.
“I have offered my wife every possible entreaty to remain,” he replied, his shoulders slumped, his expression one of regret at his failure.
Hannerle frowned. “You’re the only reason I would stay,” she told him, voice sharp.
Finch cringed. Not even she could pretend that the comment was delivered with any affection.
“It pains me to watch my husband wrap you all around his fingers,” Hannerle continued. “I’ve half a mind to break something over his head—but none of the things here belong to me, and breaking your crockery seems like poor thanks for your hospitality.” Her hands tightened briefly before she pulled them free. “I understand why he’s here. I don’t like it, but I understand it.
“So I’ll give you advice, and it’s worth every penny you pay for it. He’s arrogant. He thinks the world of himself. And he hates to lose. He notices everything, so you might as well not bother trying to lie to him. But if you put your life in his hands, he’ll keep you safe.<
br />
“Don’t put more than your life in his hands.”
“Hannerle—”
“Jay trusts him? Aye, I know. As do I. But I know him, Finch. If he causes you trouble, kick him out. If he causes you too much trouble, come to me.”
Finch nodded. “I will.” When Hannerle hesitated, she smiled. “He’s not the only older man I have to keep an eye on.”
“That,” his wife replied, with a significant glance at Haval, “is exactly what I’m afraid of.”
• • •
“I like the girl,” Hannerle said, when she was of a mind to speak to Haval. This did not occur until they were almost at the bridge that separated the Isle from the mainland.
“Yes.”
“I like Teller as well. Don’t involve them in games they can’t play.”
“Hannerle, I am unlikely to involve them in anything. They are—in case it has slipped your mind—the putative regent and the actual right-kin of one of the most powerful Houses in the Empire. I realize they are young, but they are not incompetent children; there is no need to coddle them. If they actually require such coddling, there is very little I can do to preserve them.”
“You know what I meant.”
He did. He considered, and reconsidered, the wisdom of his present position. “Hannerle,” he finally said, scrubbing his face of all expression.
“I hate it when you do that.”
“I know. But you also hate it when I lie.”
“It makes me wonder why I married you in the first place.”
He smiled—and that, at least, was genuine. “I have often wondered that myself.” He slid a hand over both of hers; they were not so loosely clasped in her lap. She had withered during her convalescence, much of her weight lost to lack of food and near endless sleep.
“Do not,” she said, as if she could hear his thoughts, “mother me.” But she did not pull her hands away. Instead, she met his unblinking gaze and held it.
Oracle: The House War: Book Six Page 3
