“But now, you have so chosen. The oath that you gave was not given to mortals, who might view your circumstances with compassion or forgiveness. Serve as Warden, but understand if you wish to survive that no oath has the weight or the meaning of the oath you have offered your forest. Do not look to the Kings and falter. Do not look to the Lord of the Compact and falter.
“The gift you have been granted is, for the moment, singular: the Kings will not find another like you. But it is hopeful as well. If you are too small and too weak in the end to bear burdens such as these for long, you are also mortal; you are only required to bear them until you dwindle into age and death.”
Birgide listened impassively, understanding that she spoke with a god. Or that she listened to one. When he was done—when the multitude of voices had once again settled into silence, she held out one hand. The scarred hand.
Even here, in the mists of the Between, she could see that the scar was large and deep; it was also golden, as if the metal had pooled, forever, in her palm. Light eddied off the surface of her skin.
The god looked at her empty, exposed hand for a long moment, and then he exhaled. There was thunder in his breath and across his brow, and she saw, for a moment, the flicker and tightening of a thousand mouths, superimposed one over the other.
Into that hand, he placed not seeds but a basket; the basket was workaday, the workmanship of twined, shaved wood very much what one would see in the Common. It was, however, smaller and lighter. “Understand the ground you now walk upon, and stand your ground there. When The Terafin returns—”
“Will she?” Birgide asked, ignoring the pinched expression that briefly crossed the face of the god’s son.
“If she does not, there will be no ground to stand upon,” was his reply. “There is no certainty. The desire for certainty drives us all—but it is a chimera. We prepare to fight the battles we can foresee; we think, we work, we plan. But The Terafin was no part of those early contingencies, and I see, in the hand of Gilafas ADelios, that those plans must be revisited.
“Remind my sons again, as I have reminded you: the Cities of Man were not ruled by the Sen, although they were built by them.” He frowned. “You are not a scholar of history, I see.”
“Even were she,” the Mother’s Daughter said, “the Cities of Man are some part of history that has been lost to us—at the discretion of the gods.” She hesitated and then said, “Will the Sleepers wake before The Terafin returns?”
Birgide turned, then, to stare at this scion of god and mortal. She had, of course, heard the phrase “when the Sleepers wake” many, many times in her life; she had used it some handful herself. But it was clear to her that the Mother’s Daughter did not intend the phrase to mean what it had meant to Birgide. Not “never.”
Both the Exalted of Reymaris and Cormaris turned to stare at the Mother’s Daughter. She might have asked the god about his sex life to lesser consternation. Birgide could not demand explanation about the Sleepers from anyone present. Not even the god. So she did what she did at gatherings of the political and the powerful: she listened.
“That cannot yet be determined,” was the quiet reply; the voices had hushed, although they were audibly present. “We have hope, daughter of my sister. Teos has sent his children into the streets; he has sent the one or two who can travel to the edges of the dreaming. There are those within your city now who might stand, for some small time, against the firstborn princes—but it would be best for everyone who cannot if such a confrontation never occurred.
“Where our children can, they attempt to mislead and misdirect the heralds.” He gazed at Birgide again. “In my opinion, it is folly.”
“Who can stand against the Sleepers?” Birgide now asked. It was perhaps the only question that seemed relevant. She didn’t ask who or what they were.
“One, you have met: Meralonne APhaniel, whom we call Illaraphaniel, in the old style. But he is not a match for the three.”
“The other?”
“It has no name. It has no known form, or all forms. We called it, in the Old Weston style, namann. We did not know that it was resident in your city until the Kialli attacked your Merchants’ Guild. One of the magi present was a son of Teos, and what he saw, Teos saw. And now, we know. There is danger in its presence.
“Look for namann, but search with care.”
“It was seen at the Merchants’ Guild?”
“Yes. In the company—at least briefly—of Jarven ATerafin and Hectore of Araven. We must release you to the world you have left, but I have taken none of your time. Go, with our blessings.”
Chapter Twenty
JEWEL HUDDLED BY THE side of a rounded indentation in the ground, a shallow rock pit that seemed—or so Terrick claimed—to have been created for just that purpose. The decision to build the fire had been hers, and it had been arrived at with a great deal of angst and anxiety not usually reserved for fire itself.
“The wood is dead,” Shianne said. “It is silent. The forest will take no offense at either the gathering or the burning.” She glanced at Terrick and added, “but take care. Do not take your fine, fine ax to the wrong tree, even here. The forest has a long memory.”
“Living trees do not make good firewood,” Terrick replied somewhat stiffly. “They are too damp, and we do not have the time to let them dry on their own.”
Shianne laughed. Terrick reddened further, which Jewel tactfully put down to the wind here, which was ferocious.
They had exited the arch she had chosen. She had stepped onto the carefully cut, flawless stone path. So had everyone else. But the small road ended abruptly a mile or two away from the ancient halls. It was impossible to judge, because the halls themselves had vanished the moment they had cleared the arch. They were stranded in the middle of trees, trees, snow, and more trees.
Terrick had found a wide stream—he disdained to call it a river. Although Jewel was nominally in charge, she surrendered the lead to the Northerner. Avandar placed himself in the rear, although it was highly unlikely that predators could approach without being noted by the flying guard of winged cats. The cats had joined the party, careening wildly overhead.
And bragging. Loudly.
Hours had turned them into voluble, bored, winged cats.
The reverse was also true: they could not fail to be noted by anything that was paying even trivial attention.
Angel went with Terrick, who teased him about his soft life in the South; clearly the cold of this winter landscape reminded Terrick of youth and vigor, not freezing to death in the streets of the hundred holdings. Adam, however, remained with Jewel and Shianne. His initial wonder at the snowscape and the white, white forest gave way, quickly, to the cold.
“I forget,” he said, in quiet Torra, “that endless snow is like endless sand. They are both deserts.”
He was quietly helpful whenever he approached Shianne; he was far less tongue-tied than anyone else, except for Celleriant, whose reluctance to speak was far harsher. The Winter King was absent; he had gone to scout ahead on the nonexistent road. He was, as Celleriant, restless and ill at ease; the cold reminded them of the lives they had once led.
Lives that meeting Jewel had irrevocably destroyed. She was aware of it more keenly than she had been anywhere but the Stone Deepings.
Shadow landed. He didn’t appear to leave paw prints in otherwise pristine snow as he padded his way across some of it.
“Don’t be stupid.”
She had not voiced the thought aloud, but was not surprised to have it criticized anyway. “We’re bored,” he added, and dropped his head in her lap.
“It hasn’t even been a day, Shadow.”
“It’s been a boring day.”
“You got to play with a child of the gods.”
He hissed.
“We’ve got nothing here that even comes close. I’m sorry.”
“We’ve been bored forever.” He batted her hands with the top of his head, and she settled into scratching behind his ears; he was warm. He was warm the way the Winter King was warm.
“Where is Kallandras?”
Snort. “Who cares?”
“Obviously I do, or I wouldn’t have asked. Is he at least with Celleriant?”
Shadow mumbled. Jewel took this as a yes.
“I don’t want anything bad to happen to them.”
“You don’t want anything interesting to happen to anyone.”
Shianne, seated across from Jewel on the other side of what would, with luck, become a fire, laughed again. Her voice was deep, but it was clear and high; Jewel loved her laughter. So, too, did Adam; he gravitated toward it.
“She is doing it on purpose, stupid girl.”
“I don’t much care,” Jewel replied.
“You should.”
“Why? I’m going to help her, anyway. She’s pregnant. If she’s using some sort of magic to make herself astonishingly beautiful in order to encourage me—all of us—to be happy about what we’re going to do anyway, where’s the harm in that?”
“I believe he is concerned that I will bespell you and you will do, in my name, things you would never otherwise consider.”
“There’s probably not a lot I haven’t considered. I’m in the middle of an endless tract of forest in the snow in the middle of nowhere, with no obvious way out, and no clear idea of where I’m supposed to be going.”
But Shianne shook her head. She had rested her arms around the curve of her belly as if the child she carried within was the only thing that mattered. “You know where you are supposed to go, Jewel. But I think you know, as well, where you should not. You have not yet decided—and because you have not, we are here.”
“And when I do decide?”
“It is still hard to carve a path through the wilderness, but it is my belief we will find one. I find it cold,” she added.
Jewel attempted to shove Shadow’s head off her lap. “Go sit with her,” she whispered.
The cat hissed. “People have babies all the time, stupid girl.”
“Yes. And a lot of the time, it kills them. I don’t want her to freeze to death on my watch.”
Shadow lifted his head and roared.
One white cat came crashing—literally—through the tree cover above, dumping snow and dry branches across the landscape. “What? Whaaaaat?” Snow growled at his brother.
Shadow once again dropped his head into Jewel’s lap. “She wants you to sit with Shianne.”
Shianne smiled, shaking her head; platinum framed her perfect face. “She is afraid that I suffer the cold in a way that you and your brothers do not.”
“Of course you do.”
“And she wishes you to lend me some of your warmth.”
Snow hissed.
“I want you to sit with her,” Jewel added. “I have no idea what you think she meant, but that’s what I meant.”
“Oh.” Snow sauntered across the landscape, taking swipes at fallen branches and buried leaves. His feet, unlike Shadow’s, made a mess. He didn’t, however, drop his head in Shianne’s lap; Jewel thought that not even the cats could be so bold or so casual with this woman.
Mortal or no, something about her made the idea uncomfortable—at best. He did, however, curl around her in such a way that she could lean into his side if she so chose. Her eyes widened slightly. “I repent,” she said to Jewel.
“Of what?”
“Every uncharitable thought I have had about your governance of the ancient. Your Snow is warm.”
“He’s not,” Shadow said. “It’s just that you are cold.”
“Oh, hush,” Jewel told the great, gray cat. “I’m cold and you don’t complain about that.”
“I complain about your cold feet,” he replied, sniffing. “But you’re asleep, then.”
Shianne stilled. “You guard her dreams, Elder?”
“Yessssssss?”
“And not you?” she asked Snow.
Snow growled. “Her dreams are as boring as she is. Do you dream?”
“I do not know. I have not slept as mortals sleep, and had I done so in the great hall, my dreaming self would be unassailable. I do not believe that even the Warden of Dreams could have found me or my sisters were he to bend all of his considerable will upon the search.”
“You are not in your hall now,” Snow pointed out.
“No. I am curious. I have some power, still. I was told that I would not. But the cold is less pleasant than it once was, and even the air itself is . . . stinging. I do not particularly fear death,” she added. Her voice was so soft it almost invited sleep. “But I do not wish to face it until this child is born and safe.”
Safety was illusion. Jewel knew it. She suspected Shianne knew it as well.
“Even time seems different, somehow.”
“Does it? I’ve never had personal experience with anything but mortality, so I can’t compare.”
“Do you fear age?” Shianne asked. Snow hissed laughter.
“Not yet. I imagine I will as I get older.” Jewel glanced at Adam; he was, to her surprise, watching her, not Shianne.
“Because of the infirmity?”
“Yes. No one wants to be weak. No one wants to watch the slow diminishing of the strengths they once had. We accept it because we don’t have much choice.”
“Not all mortals are so accepting.”
“Yes, well.”
“Some mortals seek immortality?”
Something about the tone of the question made Jewel tense. But she answered. “Some of our oldest—and goriest—stories involve men who were desperate to unlock the secret of eternal life. They believed that it could be had in exchange for any number of things.”
“What things?”
In Torra, Adam said, “The sacrifice of other lives. Some believed every year of life they destroyed they could somehow consume. It didn’t work. The sacrifice of precious stones, of precious plants or very rare animals. The drinking of blood. And, of course, the bargains with demons.”
“You speak of demons, as does your Matriarch.”
“Yes.”
“Tell me what these demons are.”
Silence. Shadow hissed his laughter, which joined Snow’s. And then, without warning, Shadow lifted his head and roared. It was a long, loud sound that shook branches. It shook more. He continued this for minutes, during which Jewel covered her ears.
Shianne, already pale, paled further as she listened; her arms tightened, her lips became, for the moment, the color of the rest of her skin, as if somewhere, she was bleeding out the remainder of the life her choice had left her. Jewel rose before Shadow had finished, reached the Arianni woman as the great, gray cat drew breath, and caught both of her hands in her own.
“I understand,” Shianne whispered. She closed her eyes. “I understand the White Lady’s endless rage and sorrow. You cannot know the harm—the eternal, endless harm—done to her. And these demons, as you call them, can grant this immortality?”
“Oh, no. Of course not,” Jewel said—in the same Torra in which Adam had spoken. “I think that once, gods could—when they walked this world. Speak to Avandar, if he is willing to converse, and ask him about eternity before you think—in any way—that it is a gift for my people.”
“I am not your people,” Shianne replied.
“No. And perhaps, for you, it would not be the burden it is to Avandar. I cannot say. I can only say this: he was born when the gods walked the world, and the only thing he desires of the gods—of anything now—is death. His own,” she added.
“And not even the firstborn can grant it,” a familiar voice said.
Jewel closed her eyes briefly; she then stood, releasing Shianne’s hands. Shad
ow was already on his feet, and his fur had risen at least an inch as a very familiar woman entered the clearing that surrounded the stone pit. “Calliastra.”
“The same. I once thought Viandaran could give me what I needed, but he could not.”
“No.”
“Is it not a mistake you would have made?”
“I don’t need what you need,” Jewel replied. “But I need things that are probably just as painful when denied.”
“The needs of mortals were never as pressing, although they were oft more immediate.” She smiled as she spoke; it was both exquisite and unpleasant. She glanced at Shianne. “The Lady has condescended to entertain the Elders. For simple warmth. It is quaint.”
“We have condescended,” Snow corrected her. He did not move, although his fur had also risen. As had his wings. Their ridges were high. Jewel had once seen him break a man’s arm with the downstroke of those wings.
“You did not win that fight,” Calliastra said, eyes narrowing. “You fled it.”
“You were boring,” Snow growled back. His wings rose higher. Adam quietly came to Shianne’s side, and as the cat shifted position, led her away; he did not go far. Shianne did not seem alarmed—nor did she seem particularly offended. But she slid an arm around Adam’s shoulder and her hand tightened enough to cause a shift in Adam’s expression. He was, however, watchful.
“I would counsel you against continuing your fight.” Celleriant had returned. He stood between Jewel and Calliastra, his blade and shield facing the firstborn. “What the ancient halls contained, the forests will not.”
“They are noisy enough to wake the dead,” Calliastra said, still glaring at Snow.
“The dead would not be a concern. But other things sleep in the wilderness, and not all will be grateful to be awakened.”
“I am not afraid of waking even the earth itself,” Calliastra snapped.
Of course she wasn’t. She wasn’t afraid of anything. And she made it as clear as Duster once had. “It’s not for you he’s worried,” Jewel said quietly. “It’s for me. What you can survive, I can’t.”
Oracle: The House War: Book Six Page 58
