This pulled curiosity out of her otherwise rigid expression. “Oh?”
“Angel. You’re probably aware of him.”
She was, and didn’t dissemble. “He did not, that I’m aware, take the House Name. It was offered?”
“Yes—at the same time as the rest of us. He wouldn’t touch it for years.”
“Something changed his mind?”
“The Terafin died.”
“I see.”
Jester shrugged. “We were here because Jewel was. Taking the House Name didn’t change that, for us. She wanted us to be ATerafin; we were ATerafin. Angel, not so much.”
“What did Angel want?”
“Angel? Who knows. He’s got some pretty Northern ideas of honor and allegiance.”
“Implying that I do? Or that I don’t?”
“I don’t know.”
“Jester—” She exhaled. “I have half a mind to strangle you.”
“I’ll take the other half.”
“You won’t prefer it.” Her grin was sliver thin. “You do not have the authority to offer me the House Name. You clearly have the gall.”
“I have the authority to offer the name provisionally,” was his easy reply. “But it’s not a provisional offer. You are not here as Astari. We don’t require you to be Astari while you’re here. Devon’s work with the Royal Trade Commission is genuine. He serves the interests of the Twin Kings, where interests collide; they seldom do. When they do not, he serves Terafin.”
“And Terafin’s interests would be served well enough by a botanist?”
His eyes widened in deliberate mimicry of hers. “Consider where you’re standing.”
She failed to reply; he expected that.
“While The Terafin is absent, I think you’ll do whatever you can, within reason, to preserve her forest. You might as well get something out of it.”
“We are talking about a House Name, ATerafin, not a handful of coins or a future commendation.”
“Yes, we are. Let me tell you what I’ve gleaned from listening to Member APhaniel. The forest is our protection. While demons do—and can—move within the manse itself, they must do so with subtlety.”
“His opinion is also conjecture.”
“I’ve seen him fight demons,” Jester replied. He didn’t bother maintaining the easy, nonchalant smile with which he’d made his offer. Birgide wasn’t wrong; he didn’t have the authority to make it. But he knew, if she accepted, it would be affirmed. Jester wasn’t Chosen—but he didn’t need to be. He needed Jay to come back, and he needed—as they all did—that she have something to come back to.
“You have?”
“Yes. Before I was ATerafin. His fight destroyed the foyer. I don’t know if you heard about it; you’d’ve been what, sixteen? Our age? It was during 410. Just before Henden. He was terrifying. He seemed to know the demon; the demon seemed to know him. Conjecture or no, I’m willing to believe him.”
“That is disturbing.”
Jester shrugged. “He says there is a chance—small, but real—that the demons and those who’ve summoned them might momentarily wrest control of these lands from Jewel in her absence. And if they do, her chances of surviving her return diminish.
“I don’t understand this forest. I don’t—and I’ve no wish to—understand your obsession with it. I look at the trees and think of selling leaves in the city streets, and I imagine the trees know it.”
Wind crackled through burning branches. Jester forced himself not to take a step or ten back. Birgide watched.
“I want two things,” Jester continued. “I want you to call Duvari off. Take Vareena or don’t—I don’t care. But I want him to stay well clear of my den.”
“You can’t imagine that I can give orders to Duvari.”
“No. I can imagine the Kings can—but it is costly to approach the Kings with demands of this nature. I am not, however, patrician. The right-kin and Finch would, no doubt, reject outright any attempt to contact the Kings. But I don’t particularly care what such an approach would do to the rest of the House.”
Both of Birgide’s brows rose. She didn’t completely believe him. Jester shrugged. Her belief wasn’t his problem. “The second thing?”
“I want this forest to be standing. I want this forest to be Terafin’s. I can’t stand against demons. Some of the Astari can, but not many. I don’t know if you’re one of them or not. I don’t think you need to be. Whatever you need, it’s already here.”
“I am not mage-born—”
“Neither is The Terafin, if it comes to that.”
“No. But her understanding of her lands is instinctive and visceral; I do not possess it. No one, I am certain, does, with the exception of The Terafin herself. I don’t understand what you expect of me, Jester.”
“I told you—”
“Apologies. I had not realized you were a pedant.”
He chuckled. “I’ve been called far worse.”
“I do not understand why you expect that I can do these things.” She held up a hand as he opened his mouth. “Yes, I understand why you feel I can approach Duvari. I have not agreed to do so—but you suspect that I will, agreement aside. I suspect I will, as well.
“But the other? The forest? I am here as an expert tourist, ATerafin. I am here on sufferance because I could not—if any opportunity presented itself—stay away. I have already earned Duvari’s stiff disapproval; he has not forbidden my presence. The Terafin did herself no favors by accepting my request.”
“Nothing she could do, short of suicide, would sway Duvari’s opinion.”
“No, perhaps not. It is not in his nature to trust. But that is beside the point. I am not an expert. I am not The Terafin. I am not ATerafin. Why do you feel that I can materially affect the forest in a positive way?”
“Do you gamble, Birgide?”
“In the sense that a life lived in service to the Astari does not end quietly or peacefully, yes. But in a more casual way, no. I am not a seeker of excitement.”
“It’s a gamble.”
“You cannot offer the House Name as a gamble. The Terafin would be appalled.”
“She let you stay. She knew; she let you stay. For reasons I trust I don’t need to explain, The Terafin has always relied on her instinct. And the rest of us? We survived by it. Literally. Our instincts have never been gold-plated—but hers? Always. She let you stay. You spend more time in the forest than she does.”
“That is not all.”
“I really loathe smart women.”
“And not smart men?”
“They’re fewer in number, and almost never interested in me.”
Birgide laughed. “I have never been interested in you; I thought you feckless and lazy.”
He bowed. “At your service.”
“I have rather enough feckless and lazy in my life. What are you hiding?”
“Hiding is a harsh word.” He had no idea what Birgide could now see in his face; Haval would probably be outraged were he in the vicinity, eavesdropping. “You carried the leaf.”
“The leaf?”
“Yes. You were holding one of the leaves from the Kings’ trees.”
“The Ellariannatte.”
“I prefer the single syllable words if they get the point across. The leaves don’t fall here the way they do in the Common. But you held one in your hand. And you were standing in front of the tree of fire. Do you know where the fire came from?”
“No. And I am not certain, at this juncture, that I want to. You are all too casual in the information you offer. You have spent a decade drinking with the patricians—you, at least, should know better.”
“I might lie.”
“You are too lazy to lie. You feel safe here; you feel that I will not harm you—or that I will not be allowed to harm you, s
hould I make the attempt.”
“I’m not at all certain that’s the case—but I suspect it is, yes. I’m not certain that you would ever risk your life, your livelihood, your vocation, to preserve The Terafin’s life. But I’m not sure, at this point, that you wouldn’t. What I’m certain of is that you’ll protect these lands to the best of your ability—if you make that commitment. I’m asking for that commitment.”
“And I must be ATerafin?”
Jester shrugged. “I think, if you do this, you’ll have earned the name—but oddly, I don’t think it’s necessary. The leaf didn’t fall at your feet because you’re ATerafin. The path didn’t open to this tree because you’re part of the House.”
She turned toward the burning tree. “This is not what I expected of my day,” she told him. “Any of it. Demons. Astari. You. I think you might be the largest surprise, and it is not entirely pleasant.”
“No. Believe that I’m not enjoying it either—but I’ve been told to earn my keep, and my current lifestyle is expensive.”
“Let me consider your . . . offer. And your request.”
• • •
She expected no argument, and received none. She doubted—very much—that Jester had the authority to offer her the House Name. But the current Terafin was not comfortable with authority, and she did not doubt that should Jewel Markess return, she would confirm what Jester had offered.
No one within Terafin had the power to compel her to speak with Duvari. The Terafin herself might have that power over Devon, who walked the thin line stretched between two masters—but Birgide believed that if Devon were available, Jester would not have come.
Except, of course, he had. She was pragmatic. She did not believe in fate; she did not believe in destiny. But she would not have believed in this forest had she not seen it with her own eyes; had she not walked beneath the branches of the impossible, and touched trunks of silver, gold, and diamond.
She turned, now, to face the tree of fire. She had not touched its branches; she had not placed palm against its trunk. If the flames did not burn the undergrowth, they were hot enough to suggest fire, and not the artifice of its appearance. She had seen fire used by the magi on one or two occasions; it had never taken this form.
She regretted cutting Jester’s story short. She wanted to know—even if he lied—what he might claim the origin of this tree to be. She turned again, to say as much, and stopped as a flicker of fire, more gold than red, caught her attention.
It was a leaf.
It was a falling leaf.
Without thought, she reached out with a cupped palm—her left hand, although she could use both. The breeze which caught this floating bit of heat was slow and hazy; the leaf descended.
She knew she should let it fall. She knew it was of fire. She knew what fire did to flesh it touched. And she understood, watching the trail of red-and-gold light, that this was the moment of decision. No thought of politics, no thought of power struggles, no calculated, pragmatic examination of circumstances was to be allowed her. She could catch the leaf or she could let it fall.
The leaf from the Ellariannatte had fallen. She had retrieved it from the ground. But this leaf? No.
“Birgide—what are you doing?” Jester’s voice was sharper, louder, than it had been. She didn’t begrudge the question; it was the very one she asked herself. But if her hand shook, if her arm trembled, she did not withdraw.
“I am,” she answered, unmoving, “being tested.”
She thought he would rush forward and grab the hand she held aloft, pulling it out of the path of danger. Perhaps, had she been one of his den, he might have. She wasn’t. She was not now, nor would she ever be, his responsibility or his kin.
The leaf of fire reached her open hand.
And it burned.
• • •
Jester cursed and closed the distance between them, recognizing the way her entire body tensed, and recognizing, as well, the smell of burnt flesh.
Birgide—being the person whose flesh it was—didn’t appear to react at all. She didn’t lower her arm. She didn’t attempt to divest herself of the fire.
And the fire began to spread. Jester yanked his jacket off and lifted it to throw it over the hand that held the leaf. He was rendered speechless when she closed her fingers in a fist around it.
“Leave it be,” she said, through clenched teeth—the only certain sign that the burning was not his imagination.
“Birgide—”
“I mean it. This is nothing.” She grimaced as the fire spread from her closed fist; her eyes teared.
“Birgide.” Jester stepped back, his coat folded over his arm, his face pale.
“Did you think,” she asked, in evenly spaced, controlled syllables, “it would be as simple as a single word?”
“Yes, actually.”
Her laughter sounded like a hiss of pain. “Sometimes,” she said, through teeth that remained clenched, “you are astonishingly naive.” But was he really any worse than she was? She had learned to endure pain. It was a matter of both pride and survival. In the latter years, mostly pride. She had learned, in the earlier years, to evince pain, to play it up, to give people the fear they wanted—it put them off their guard. It gave her chances to strike or escape. In almost all cases, escape had been her choice.
But not all. She had never run from Duvari. He was not a warm man; not a friendly one. He was not kind, and his form of mercy involved quick death. He was harsh, exacting, suspicious, judgmental, and deadly. Always deadly.
And he served the Kings.
Birgide did not remember when that single, clarifying point had become the reason for her existence. When she had first encountered Duvari, she would have scoffed at the motivation. She did. She recognized everything dangerous about him in the first two seconds of their meeting, and she knew men like Duvari did not serve; they ruled.
When had she started to believe otherwise? Not when she entered his service. Not when she trained. Not when she learned to imbibe small quantities of the poison to which she had been subjected in later years. Not when she had first killed a man—in self-defense. If Birgide was sent out to kill, it was not meant to be so obvious a death.
When?
She could not recall. Her hand ached. She thought the flesh in the center of her palm must be damaged enough by now that the pain would pass. Fire had spread from her clenched fist down her arm in a trail that was more vine than branch. But this fire did not burn. She had taken a risk. Had made a gamble.
The pain did not recede; it wouldn’t. Not immediately, and not for days. She would have to tend the burned and blistered flesh; she could not afford the infection that often set in after a burn. She did not open her hand. Did not attempt to retreat.
Tendrils of flame continued to emerge from between her clenched fingers, as if they were liquid and couldn’t be contained by so faulty a vessel. They followed her arm, and then spread across her shoulders, her collarbone, the underside of her chin. She felt warmth that threatened to become heat; she thought blisters—obvious ones—would be left anywhere the fire touched her skin.
And still she endured.
It would not be the first time.
Jester’s lips were white, when Birgide turned to look at him. His skin was the same color. She was honestly surprised that he stood before her, bearing witness, his own hands curved into fists. “You don’t,” she told him softly, “have the sense you were born with.”
“It was beaten out of me,” he replied, his casual shrug made difficult and awkward because he couldn’t relax into it.
“So was mine, apparently.” She closed her eyes, inhaling rapidly. Forced them open again. “It’s a brand,” she told him.
“A what?”
“The fire is branding me. It’s leaving a mark.”
“Why?”
; “What do brands normally mean?” she asked him. Frustration took the edge off pain. Or pain made frustration sharper. She wasn’t certain which, and didn’t care. “Ownership. Slavery.”
“Both of which are illegal in the Empire.”
“So is murder. Murder still happens.” She was afraid when the weave of flame tendrils rose to cover her face. A scar was nothing new in her life. But she needed her sight. She needed her vision.
Jester reached out and caught the hand that did not hold the leaf of fire. She could have shrugged him off. She didn’t. Instead, she gripped the hand he’d offered; given his sharp intake of breath, she thought he might regret it; she wasn’t certain that she hadn’t cracked bone.
But it helped. It helped.
Jester turned toward the tree itself. “Cut it out!” he shouted, as if that would make any difference at all. “Jay would never demand this. She’d accept the offer of service or she’d reject it—but she would never allow this!”
In spite of herself, Birgide was impressed. “You really are an idiot.”
“My middle name. One of the few that’s useful in polite company.”
She tightened her hand as he moved toward the tree. “It may have escaped your notice, but your Jay is not here. She doesn’t get to decide the terms by which I am accepted or rejected.”
“She would, if she were here.”
“And she is not here, Jester.” Birgide gulped down air.
“No. She’s not. But we are.” He yanked his hand free, or tried; Birgide’s grip was far too solid. She wasn’t certain she could voluntarily extricate her hand without work; it was almost numb. Where Jester walked, she followed, stumbling.
He reached the tree and came to a stop inches from its flaming trunk. His skin was orange and gold, his hair the color of fire; his eyes, reflecting flames, were the same. “Is it worth it?” he asked, voice low.
“What?” she responded, confused.
“I never swore an oath to Jay. She never asked for one.”
“But you served her anyway?”
“I was found in a brothel. Most of us were.”
Birgide fell silent. The pain in her hand was throbbing and dull now. But the fire was a mask in front of her face. She closed her eyes. If the forest decided to reject her, the eyelids wouldn’t save her vision.
Oracle: The House War: Book Six Page 42
