Stone floor stung the callused soles of his feet; the fire in the grate was embers and ash. Nor did he light it anew. He hadn’t the time; time would come later—or never. The trace of Sigurne’s magic hung about the room like a pall. She was not given to idle fancy or idle worry.
He made his way up the stairs to her room and hesitated at the closed door. Matteos was one of two men given permission to enter at any time of day or night, and in any situation. The wards and spells wrapped around the door—the magic that seeped into stone and wood and rug and glass—included him. Inasmuch as he could be, he was some part of Sigurne Mellifas, the Guildmaster of the Order of Knowledge.
But even so, he understood that there were spaces into which he must tread with care. His fear was not of Sigurne, but for her. She tolerated it, but took neither comfort nor pleasure from its existence. She did not, on most days, deign to notice it.
Today—tonight—was to be one of those days. Matteos opened the door.
• • •
The room was dark with night but bright with magic.
Sigurne had laid out three robes. Two, she wore when she acknowledged the possibility of “difficulties” or “misunderstandings.” Thus did she brush off attempts on her life. But the third? The third she had worn perhaps twice. Its presence stilled all need for questions—or their answers.
“Yes,” she said, although she did not turn to look at him. “I have summoned Meralonne.”
“Have you summoned the magi?” The greater part of the active body of First and Second Circle mages were occupied by the explosions that had shattered walls—and lives—in the Merchant Authority. Some were actually ensconced within that building, to the chagrin or outrage of the merchants.
“Gavin has summoned them.”
Matteos did not blanch.
“If I ask it, will you remain here?”
“If I ask it—if I beg it—will you?” Matteos countered. The first time she had asked this of him, it had stung. He had served her for a handful of years by that point; he had been steady, silent, and supportive. She had chosen to take Member APhaniel on a task for the Kings; she had asked Matteos Corvel to remain behind. And it was clear why: Meralonne APhaniel was a power. Matteos Corvel was a Second Circle mage, and at that, only barely. He was not proud of the envy—the jealousy—that he had felt at the time, but had made his peace with it. He had been a younger man. Much younger. And much, much more ignorant.
Sigurne exhaled; it was the whole of her answer.
Matteos lifted the third of the robes and held them out for her; she slid shaking arms into its generous sleeves. He whispered the focal words of a small spell; she lifted her hand to his lips and shook her head. In the darkness of room and the brightness of magic, her eyes were luminescent.
She was afraid. “Husband your power,” she told him, in her careworn voice. “We may have need of it.”
That, too, told him much. He did as she asked; the spell was merely a way of avoiding some of the night’s chill; it was not a necessity.
• • •
Matteos cursed Meralonne APhaniel, but had the grace—for the first five minutes—to do so silently. The winds at the tower’s height were bitter indeed, and shelter from the worst of their bite had been denied him. He did not mind it for his own sake—although it was close—but for Sigurne’s. In the clouded light of moons, she looked ethereal, ephemeral. He knew she played at age when it suited her, but in the past decade, she played at it when it did not; she was not young. She had not been young for years.
Neither had Matteos, although of the two, he was the younger. He felt the wind as a physical presence.
Gavin Ossus had, as Sigurne said, summoned the magi. There were four: Eryk, Alldrich, Engel, and Olivia. Not one of them approached Matteos in age; nor were they like him in any other way except for the talent to which all present had been born. Where Matteos had chosen Sigurne as his master—and perhaps his responsibility—they had chosen power. They had learned to hone their talent, to use it, in matters of war.
If they had a master within the Order, it was not Sigurne, but Meralonne APhaniel; they tendered her the respect they did because APhaniel did so, and they followed his example.
Tonight, however, that example was suspect. Five minutes. Ten.
Throughout, Sigurne remained silent, face to the wind, eyes upon moons and sky. Matteos did not understand the complexities of her relationship with Meralonne APhaniel. He did not understand Meralonne APhaniel at all. But he knew—as they must all know—that Meralonne had also been Sigurne’s master, Sigurne’s teacher, in her distant youth.
Meralonne who appeared ageless. Meralonne, who was.
Matteos had only once asked Sigurne what Meralonne was. She had replied with a single word: Necessary. Matteos had never asked her again. Nor had he sought information from the other magi or the other scholars housed beneath the Order’s many roofs. He trusted Sigurne. He trusted Sigurne’s sense of necessity—and also, her sense of discretion. If she was not willing to speak of Meralonne to Matteos, she did not wish the matter to be spoken of at all.
But something had changed in the past year. An edge of uncertainty, something sharp enough to hint at fear, had crept into Sigurne Mellifas. Sigurne was, by nature, both conservative and cautious; she was considered—by the callow and the superficial, in Matteos’ considered opinion—timid. She accepted this designation; she had never, in truth, lived up to it. She did not live up to it now, but some unnamed fear informed her actions and her decisions.
Given the events of the past several months, this was reasonable, and Matteos, had he been any other man, would have accepted it as rational, perhaps even inevitable. Had he been any other man, he would not have been in a position to observe the guildmaster so closely.
He moved when she turned away from Gavin; he was by her side when she levered herself up, to the height of the crenellations. He offered her a hand, but was not surprised when she ignored it; Sigurne did not often accept aid. Nor did he attempt to stop her when she leaped from the crenellations, he had seen it so many times. She moved as if she were half her age, and he knew the expression that gilded her face although at the moment he could not see it.
But he did not breathe again until she had fallen ten feet and the wind itself had caught her in its unseen folds.
• • •
Meralonne APhaniel existed without context.
His spill of white hair had not lengthened with the passage of years or decades. The lines around the corners of eyes and lips had not deepened; the skin of his hands had not aged, darkened with sun, or toughened with calluses. Even the armor he wore—and he wore it now, beneath the fall of robes—had not rusted or tarnished.
He was one of a handful of the magi in the Order’s history who could instantly travel between two known destinations and still be on his feet. His power had not diminished with age—at least, not with Matteos’ age. It had, in Matteos’ uneasy estimation, grown. It had grown substantially within the past few months.
Nor was Meralonne the only magi to be so questionably gifted.
Gavin and his cohort had likewise seen a rise in power; they did, however, question it. If they obeyed Sigurne, they were Meralonne’s men—and women; they obeyed the guildmaster because Meralonne APhaniel did. She knew it, of course. She rose in the wind that surrounded the mage like a personal army.
He was gentle, with Sigurne.
He was not likewise gentle with Matteos, who was more or less yanked off his feet. A glimmer of something that might be a smile—or steel—graced the mage’s cold expression. “Matteos.”
Matteos grimaced.
“We must be away.”
Matteos almost asked where they were going, but a flash of incandescent red answered before he could. It cut the sky like a beacon, suggesting sunset in the blink of an eye before it once again faded to ni
ght.
He could not see stars in its wake. He could see only Sigurne, because it was to Sigurne that he looked.
• • •
The city rushed past in a cold, cold blur. The more subtle illuminations of protective magics flared as the warrior-magi prepared, midair, as unruffled as Sigurne herself by their manner of transport. Matteos, however, took his cues from Sigurne. She did not expend her power—any of it.
Meralonne spoke to her; she replied. Both sets of words were lost to the wind. Neither were necessary; fiery plumes once again cut the sky. At the heart of those flames, winged and shadowed, a demon stood before the Merchants’ guildhall.
A demon. Of course.
• • •
Matteos met the ground with just enough time to bend his knees and establish his footing; it was awkward. Gavin and his warriors timed impact with physical movement; they didn’t land on their feet, they rolled to them. Golden light filled their hands—and Matteos suspected their eyes—as they armed themselves.
Only Sigurne settled to her feet as if gently set down.
The wild wind retained only Meralonne, but it was Meralonne the demon noticed; no one else—armed, armored, and ready for combat—was worthy of his notice.
“Illaraphaniel,” the creature said, as he spread his massive wings, unfurling them both at once and forcing the magi back a step. His voice was deep, resonant, a force of nature that the wind could not diminish or carry away; Matteos felt it as a blow. He might have been caught by it; Gavin was.
But Sigurne was not. Having found ground once again beneath her feet, she moved—swiftly, belying her age—toward two men who stood by the side of the guildhall, observing.
“This is not your fight, not yet,” Meralonne said. Matteos, focused on Sigurne and the idiots to whom she rushed, glanced back briefly. There was a third man here—a third man who was not magi. He was armed, but not armored; he wore black clothing, although it was rent and torn. Something about him was familiar, but Matteos could not immediately place it. “Go back to your master. Your time will come, is coming.”
The man stood, arms stiff, for one long beat, and then he turned toward Sigurne. No, Matteos thought; toward the men. And he recognized the stranger, then: Andrei. Servant of Hectore of Araven.
• • •
Sigurne did not care for Jarven ATerafin, but admired him. None of that admiration showed. “You dispatched one?” The set of her mouth was a single, thin line; her eyes were narrowed as well.
“In the kitchens. He had taken the form of the chef.”
“When?”
“A quarter of an hour ago, perhaps less. I will, of course, make a full report when the situation allows for it.”
Sigurne nodded and turned her attention to Hectore of Araven. “This is not the place for you, Patris Araven. Take your servant and leave.”
The patris managed a smile. “You do not, I see, offer similar advice to Jarven.”
“I am too old to waste breath.” She turned to Matteos. She exhaled. “They planned well, when they planned this. The servants?”
“There is apparently a magical shield—”
“I am aware of it.”
“The servants could not bypass it. We could, but the gap in the shield drew the demon your magi now fight. The surviving servants shelter in the hall nearest the door, waiting.”
She was not concerned about the demon; her expression made that clear. “I will deal with the barrier. ATerafin, when it is down, lead the servants to safety.”
Jarven nodded, as if she were The Terafin—the only woman with the right to give him commands.
Nor did Sigurne expect anything but obedience. She turned to Matteos. “I need Meralonne in the guildhall.”
Meralonne had engaged the winged demon. Sigurne, proving the truth of the words she had offered Hectore of Araven now called for member Ossus. If Meralonne could not—or would not—hear the guildmaster, Gavin was only human.
“Take your men and engage the demon. I need Meralonne in the guildhall. Now.”
Gavin was aware of the strange, fey compulsion that enveloped Meralonne APhaniel when he engaged the demons in combat. He hesitated—which for a man of Gavin’s temperament was very significant. Sigurne had already turned away.
Matteos said, “Tell him that he dallies with the least significant power; the greater is within the guildhall.”
• • •
Sigurne’s first use of magic that evening was to bring the containing barrier down. Matteos’ first use of magic was to erect a similar barrier that was far less ambitious in size or scope: he shielded the guildmaster while she worked. She was not quick—but what she did in ten minutes, most of the magi could not do in an hour.
Jarven ATerafin did as Sigurne had commanded: he took control of the servants who raced from the building, emptying the back halls in their rush to be free of the guildhall. Sigurne glanced at them as they flowed past, to either side. Were it not for Matteos’ barrier, she would have been trampled.
Her expression as she at last gained entry into the guildhall almost implied that death by panicked trampling would be preferable to what she found within. Matteos joined her, crossing the threshold; he staggered as the floor beneath his feet shuddered.
Sigurne exhaled. Her shoulders fell, and her chin; age—true age—settled around and within her. Eyes dark, she turned to Matteos. She had faced demons before; she had certainly faced hostile magic. She had investigated the deaths that occurred in the wake of either. He had never seen this expression on her face.
“Sigurne?”
“It is worse than I feared.”
“The demons—”
“There are three. Two are ahead of us, in the guildhall; one, you have already seen.” Her lined, pale hands seemed as silver as her hair when they curved in brief fists. “I do not know how, but one of them has called the wild earth—and it is waking.”
She stumbled as the floor once again shuddered. Matteos caught her as she lifted one hand—and her chin—and spoke. Her lips were less than twelve inches from his ear, but he could not hear a single syllable.
Meralonne, he thought, what are you doing? What have you done? What are you becoming? Sigurne was afraid. Sigurne, who was cautious, but almost fearless, was afraid.
• • •
The platinum-haired mage entered the back halls. His eyes were luminescent silver, his hair a straight, undisturbed fall of white. The eyes narrowed.
“Can you bespeak the earth?” Sigurne asked.
“Not easily, and not yet; it is waking—but the waking of the earth was always fraught, and the Kialli voices that reach it will engender rage, not service.”
“Can you kill the demon who is attempting to wake the earth before he fully succeeds?”
The cool glance he now cast at his theoretical superior was the only answer he offered; silence fell.
It was broken by a roar of bestial fury. The floors shook. The aftershock of roar was scream—several screams. Matteos was surprised; he had thought, had expected, that the merchants would be dead. They weren’t. Or rather, not all of them were.
That would galvanize Sigurne. It always had. But he saw no like relief or surprise on her face. And he remembered Henden, then. Henden in the year 410. There had been no quick deaths, no merciful deaths, until the end.
Those weeks had been a living nightmare, and he felt that he had turned a corner into that landscape again.
“Sigurne,” Meralonne said. He glanced at Matteos. “You know what you must do.”
“You know why I have not.”
Meralonne nodded. His sword was so painfully bright, Matteos squinted and looked away. “The time is coming. What do you fear?”
“He will hear.”
“The god you do not name?”
“Yes.”
; “It is not the god you will have to fear if the earth is unleashed. The god, in this action, has surrendered all hope of ruling this city. Those who sleep will not be destroyed by so small a thing as the earth’s displeasure—even sleeping, they are not at risk. Not in that way. The risk to you is twofold: the earth can destroy this fragile city in its anger, and it will wake in rage—or the earth can do what none have yet done: it can wake the Sleepers.
“And the rage of the Sleepers guarantees the destruction of all you have built.”
“And the rage of a distant god?”
“Distant is the important word, there. Do what you must. Make your decision.” He turned away; two strides carried him half the length of a long, empty hall. But he turned back. “Matteos.”
Things must be grim indeed if Meralonne addressed him by name. “APhaniel.”
“She will listen to voices that none of the magi can hear. They will not, as she fears, hear her. That was never the danger. I leave her safety in your hands.”
The reply Matteos should have made died on his tongue. He meant to tell Meralonne that Sigurne needed neither safety nor protection, because that had always been true. But life was not static. Sigurne was alive.
“Meralonne,” she said, before he turned again.
“Guildmaster?”
“I want the merchants alive.”
“They are dying even now.”
“Yes. Do not add to the numbers of the dead where it can at all be prevented.”
“Very well. The architectural stability of the building itself?”
“When buildings like this one collapse, people die.”
He nodded again, and left them. With him went the harsh, cold light of his blade, and the narrowed edges of his eyes. But Matteos had seen the sharp, upward curve of his lips; the slender edge of smile that adorned them seemed almost predatory.
• • •
Sigurne did not follow.
Instead, she sank to her knees, the motion deliberate. Her hands, she set immediately against the flat, stone wall. Her lips moved, and as they did, a demon roared again; the echoes of his voice shook the floor. She did not attempt to repeat her words; she swallowed them, closed her eyes, and leaned all of her weight into her hands.
Oracle: The House War: Book Six Page 16
