Oracle: The House War: Book Six

by Michelle West

  “You are older.”

  “Yes.”

  “And stronger.”

  “Yes. But in my kind, beyond a certain point, age is not strength.”

  “And in me, if I am truly mortal as you are mortal, it will likewise be a weakness.”

  Jewel couldn’t imagine it. But then again, she didn’t want to. Mortals were greedy, she thought, lifting a shaking hand to place it over Shianne’s. There were so few perfect moments, they wanted to capture and hold them; to fix them in place; to force them to remain, forever, as they were.

  “Yes,” Celleriant said. He had not moved. Shadow had, muttering as his pads dropped far more heavily than they should have against the cold stone. He seemed both drawn to Shianne and afraid of her.

  “Tell me about Winter,” Shianne said—to Jewel. She allowed Jewel’s hand to draw hers away from her face, but shifted her position so that their fingers twined. Celleriant’s eyes narrowed.

  “I mean her no harm,” Shianne said, although she had never once ceased her scrutiny of Jewel’s face. “If I understand what has happened—and I do not, not completely—I will not reach the White Lady unless I am by your lord’s side.” She might have said more, but her grip suddenly tightened; Jewel’s hand went almost instantly numb. Before she could attempt to retrieve her hand, Shianne reached for her sleeve; she shoved it up Jewel’s arm, quickly enough that the cuffs abraded skin.

  Celleriant was between them in an instant. He caught Shianne’s wrist in his left hand. She didn’t appear to notice.

  “Where—how—” she had, until this moment, spoken so smoothly and so perfectly it was hard to see her at such a loss for words. Even breath seemed to have deserted her. “Where did you come by this?” She attempted to lift Jewel’s hand, to expose to closer inspection the slender strands of hair that were braided into a bracelet around her wrist. In this light, they were almost invisible—or they should have been.

  “It is not for you,” Celleriant whispered. “Nor for me. They were gifted my lord, and they will remain in her keeping.” This time, he called his sword.

  Jewel cried out, wordless; she yanked her wrist free. And then, before she could think or plan, she threw both of her arms around Shianne, exposing her back to Celleriant’s edged blade. Blue light was reflected in specks of stone; nothing about it was warm.

  Shianne was Winter, in Jewel’s arms.

  Her only answer to Celleriant was the sword she now drew; its light was not blue, but gold. The blue light guttered. The gold did not. Jewel tightened her grip, her arms; she could see platinum strands moving against her wrist, as if they contained wind, but only barely.

  Kallandras began to sing.

  His song was wordless; without words to channel its strength it felt strangely unbound, unconfined. Jewel’s hair blew into—and out of—her eyes as the wind traveled toward the bard in response.

  It was Angel who approached the armed Shianne and her mortal shield; Angel who gently pulled Jewel away. She did not resist him; nor did Shianne attempt to cling to her; she raised sword once, in Angel’s direction. Angel could see Shianne’s expression; Jewel couldn’t. Whatever it was Angel saw, he hesitated only briefly before he drew Jewel away.

  “Angel—”

  Not now, he signed.

  She fell silent. He drew her into the orbit of the Winter King who, unlike Celleriant, had not chosen to interfere. She looked back to see Shianne, sword in hand; she carried no shield, but the blade itself seemed to hold her attention; she was staring at it as if she had never seen sword before in her life.

  Jewel had seen a sword almost identical only a handful of times. Avandar’s sword.

  Yes, Avandar replied. And so, it is true. She is no longer as she once was.

  The sword’s light dimmed as the sword faded from view. Shianne, however, turned to Jewel. Angel stood between them, but not as Celleriant had done. “It has been so long,” she whispered—although her voice carried. “So long. Jewel. Matriarch. What you bear, now—how did it come to be in your hands? I accuse you of no theft; such a theft would be impossible—even for gods—while the White Lady lived.

  “But you do not understand what it is that you bear.”

  “And you do.”

  “Yes. I understand what it presages. I understand why—even if the White Lady is entrapped—you will be able to reach her. I do not know if any others will—the gift was given to you, and not to your companions.”

  “What does it signify?” Jewel asked.

  But Shianne did not reply. Instead, she said, “Lord Celleriant, I do not know your Winter Queen; you do not know my White Lady. No one of us—not even my sisters—saw her in exactly the same light; she had subtle and different meanings for each of us. I assume that has not changed and I will not ask what she means to you; it is clear to me now that we are kindred spirits.

  “Let me ask instead, one question, and only one. You have ridden with her host for almost all of your existence. You have seen her stand against gods. Tell me, in your existence at her side, how much did your numbers increase?”

  He frowned.

  “How many, Lord Celleriant, were born after you?”

  Silence. The silence had layers that Jewel couldn’t penetrate.

  “None?” Shianne continued, her voice soft. “None in all of the long years you have served her?”

  “I am the last Prince of her Court.”

  Shianne bowed her head for one long moment. “And what happened, between then and now? Why did she choose as she has chosen?”

  Celleriant’s silence was rigid. It was shorn of dignity, shorn of defiance. Jewel had seen him like this only once. Without thought she moved to stand between the two members of the White Lady’s court. She turned to face Shianne, whose gaze was anchored inches above the top of Jewel’s messy hair. She shoved that hair out of her eyes.

  “Why are you asking if you already know the answer?”

  Shianne’s gaze shifted; her silver eyes narrowed. “This has nothing to do with you.”

  “But it does. Because Celleriant serves me.”

  Adam stirred at the edge in Jewel’s voice; the edge and the heat. He blinked, wobbled, and reached out to grab antlers. “Matriarch.”

  Jewel exhaled at the word. “Yes, Adam?” She kept her gaze upon Shianne as if it were a leveled weapon.

  You will only humiliate Lord Celleriant, the Winter King observed. He will not use a mere mortal as a shield.

  Jewel ignored this as well.

  Adam leaned down. To Jewel, he said, “The White Lady does not bear children the way we do.”

  Jewel looked at the very ordinary swell of flesh that implied Adam was wrong. The Voyani youth slid off the Winter King’s back, and the Winter King allowed this, although the boy’s gait was wobbly and likely to end in a fall. He came to stand by Jewel’s side.

  “Is this true?” Jewel asked—of Shianne.

  “Of course.”

  “How—how does Ariane bear children?”

  “She does not bear children. We are hers; we are her offspring. We are the firstborn of the firstborn. But we did not begin our lives encased in her distended flesh.” She spoke, now, with distaste.

  Jewel, Avandar said quietly. Have a care. There are some things you are not meant to know.

  Jewel also ignored Avandar. This was slightly easier; she’d had a decade and a half of practice.

  “But we are not the White Lady; we are simply of her. What she creates, by will and desire alone, we cannot.”

  “What do you mean, can’t? You’re pregnant.”

  “Yes, Terafin,” a new voice said. Shianne stiffened. So did Jewel. Maybe for the same reasons. Blue sword and shield came to Celleriant’s arms almost too quickly as Jewel turned in the direction of the new voice.

  Orange shields, visible to Jewel’s eye as the artifa
cts of magic, surrounded her and Adam; she reached out and placed an arm around the healer’s shoulder. She recognized the woman whose dusky voice now filled the hall with the wonder of its echoes.

  Calliastra.

  Calliastra, the daughter of the Lord of the Hells and the goddess of Love.

  Chapter Twelve

  8th of Morel, 428 A.A.

  Terafin Manse, Averalaan Aramarelas

  ‘‘JESTER?”

  Jester was sitting in the arboretum that had been Alowan’s quiet pride. Clearly Daine had continued the old man’s regimen of care, although Jester noted no new plants. He was waiting with an easy patience, slouched across a bench, his back to the stone edge of fountain.

  He’d been waiting for over an hour, figuratively cooling his heels. He did not trust himself enough to simply enter the healerie, but he needed to speak with the healer, and in this case, that meant Daine.

  Daine was patrician, by look. Perhaps, in his youth, Alowan had been the same; by the time Alowan had met the den, it was impossible to discern the old man’s roots. He had been nothing at all like Levec, the only other healer outside of Adam and Daine with whom Jester had more than a passing acquaintance.

  Daine did not, at the moment, look happy. Nor did he look as if he’d slept much in the last few days. Jester knew better than to ask; Daine was at that age. At twenty, he was not a child—and the boundaries he set to define himself as adult were prickly.

  Jester rose as Daine approached.

  “You heard.”

  “In the right-kin’s office. The Master of the Household Staff was the appointment before mine—and let me tell you she was not happy.”

  The sharp intake of breath told Jester more than he wanted to know, and he lowered his voice instantly, wincing. “Please tell me she’s not in the healerie.” When Daine failed to do so, he added, “No wonder you look a fright. How long has she been here?”

  “Less than an hour.”

  Jester whistled. “How much less?”

  “Not nearly enough.”

  “She’s with—”

  “Vareena, yes. Who is currently mostly sleeping. One or two of the more senior servants have dropped by as well.”

  “I’m surprised they dared.”

  “They didn’t stay.” Daine paused; he ran his hands through his hair, pushing it out of his eyes. Jester recognized the gesture; it was pure Jay. “That’s not entirely accurate. Berald just left.”

  “Can you tell me what happened?”

  “She was found in time and is likely to recover.”

  Jester froze for one long minute. He now understood why Daine looked so very haggard, and the ice became fire.

  Daine caught Jester’s arm; Jester startled. He had not intended to move. He had not been aware that he had. “Let it go.”

  Jester opened his mouth.

  “Don’t lecture me. Don’t even think it. I know what Terafin men of power are capable of. That is not all of what’s happened here.”

  “I want to know who was responsible for this. She’s twelve—she’s a junior servant!” Jester kept his voice level and quiet—but it took effort. He wanted to scream in fury.

  It had been so long. So long. Jester exhaled.

  “I know. But, Jester—it’s political.”

  “It’s—” Jester bit back the words.

  “Jay was twelve when she started to gather her den. You have never thought of Jay as a child. Don’t—don’t make the same mistake now. What was done—was horrific. I believe it was meant as a warning or a message; I don’t believe they expected Vareena to survive.”

  “Would she have, without your intervention?”

  “. . . No.” Daine looked away. “In normal circumstances, the decision to expend the effort to heal would be made by The Terafin—”

  “Who’s not here.”

  Daine nodded. “It doesn’t matter. These are not normal circumstances. I am—like Alowan—the master of the healerie, and the decision and its consequences are mine. I am not ATerafin.” He tightened his grip.

  “And you are not, in theory, capable of saving her life. You have just revealed—to men or women who are capable of sending this message—that the Terafin healerie is capable of—”

  A sharp, loud, clearing of throat filled the arboretum.

  Two adult men froze, and both turned, almost in unison. The arch now contained the most terrifying member of House Terafin, bar none.

  “Vareena is waking,” the Master of the Household Staff told the healer. “I believe she wishes to speak with you.”

  Daine swallowed. “I—”

  “Now.”

  • • •

  Jester was no longer twelve. But even at twelve he would have known better than to cling to the idea that there was strength in numbers. The Master of the Household Staff clearly didn’t understand the difficulties healers faced when forced to call the dying back to their pain-racked, ruined bodies. Daine obeyed what was, in its entirety, a command; he walked through the arch of the healerie, leaving Jester to face the dragon on his own.

  She folded her arms. He stepped out of her way—although he wasn’t, strictly speaking, standing in it—to allow her to pass; it was a hopeful gesture. Kalliaris frowned.

  The Master of the Household Staff did not make small talk. She did not chat. She barely had to open her severe, narrow mouth to send scads of servants fleeing in terror; talk was not therefore necessary.

  Jester was, in comparison, the master of idle chatter—but attempting to generate successful idle conversation with this woman would be harder than trying to get the side of a cliff to chuckle. And he was too angry, by half, to humiliate himself by making the attempt.

  “You don’t want me to speak with her.”

  She evinced no surprise. He was wearing his House Council ring; she did not have one. She had the House ring, of course—but for a woman of her stature in the House, it wasn’t required. Stature, however, implied hierarchy; hierarchy implied rules. Rules forbid the servants from speaking with people like Jester, and if those rules were stretched, they were stretched by men and women who knew how to be flexible.

  “She is a member of the Household Staff. She is not your concern.”

  “Is she a permanent member of the staff?”

  “I repeat, she is not your concern. The Household Staff is not your concern.”

  “And I will repent of all thought of interference if you tell me that the men—or women—responsible for her injuries are also members of the Household Staff.”

  She said nothing.

  Jester, watching her, felt suddenly uneasy in an entirely different way.

  “You are correct,” the Master of the Household Staff finally said. “The healer is too young and too impulsive. But had The Terafin been present, she would have, in all likelihood, made the same choice—and the same mistake—before she could be brought round. It is not a mistake her predecessor would have made.” These were more words—and more inappropriate words—than Jester had ever heard the woman speak. And he’d eavesdropped any number of times.

  He stared at her. “You wanted her to die.”

  “No, ATerafin, I did not. But I accepted her death as a consequence of her role in this House—and the healer should have done so as well. He is not yet as wise or pragmatic as Alowan.”

  • • •

  It was never wise, when dealing with dangerous men or women, to expose the weakness of fury; fury implied pain; pain implied vulnerability. To men or women who had proven themselves dangerous for a variety of reasons, compassion was almost as foreign as genuine sentiment. Jester, who understood what lack of power meant, understood best when to hide weakness.

  He did not speak for a full minute. He expected the Master of the Household Staff to leave. She didn’t. She stood in front of him, her eyes narrowed,
her nose lifted. There was—and had always been—something vaguely martial about the woman; it was impossible to believe on any visceral level that she was a servant.

  He could pull rank on her, in theory; he had that right. But might made right, and it was all on her side at the moment.

  “Carver would have understood.”

  His jaw opened before he could stop it. The den didn’t mention Carver. The servants, when in the company of the den, didn’t mention him either.

  “If you will not leave the healerie until I leave, I will leave.” She walked past him and stopped at the door; Jester hadn’t moved. He heard her exhale and could almost imagine, had she been any other woman, that she was praying for patience. Or luck. “Join me.”

  • • •

  Jester did not keep company with the dour and the humorless. Had he chosen to break one of the more important rules of his social life, a less likely companion than the Master of the Household Staff could probably not be found. But he followed, pausing outside of the healerie’s door to retrieve his daggers from the wall-mounted wooden box into which all weapons must be placed.

  The Master of the Household Staff did not likewise retrieve weapons, but she didn’t require them. The halls were all but empty as she turned and made her way to the more secluded galleries; they were entirely empty when she reached them. It was not just Jester who was struggling with fury in silence.

  He considered taking the nearest right and returning to the West Wing; he still held the report that Teller had handed him in one slightly shaking hand. But the Master of the Household Staff turned her glare on him at exactly the right—or perhaps wrong—moment, and he gave up on that plan. Whatever she intended to show him, he was going to see. He doubted very much that she intended to speak more than a few cursory words.

  He almost lost his jaw a second time when she approached the entrance to the back halls. She glanced down the gallery at a section of paneling between two of the public function rooms, and when no discernible guests appeared, turned and opened a door. It was perhaps two inches taller than she was; she was not a short woman. It was taller than Jester.