Oracle: The House War: Book Six

by Michelle West

  “You know where he is.”

  “Perhaps, perhaps not. I know that he is, like tidal waves or storms at sea, unpredictable; he is a force of nature that cannot be invoked or controlled, even at his own behest. What function did the gods feel he might serve?”

  Birgide fell silent.

  Meralonne nodded.

  “May I ask if you are, in some fashion, like namann?”

  Brows rose; pipe stilled. It was almost as if he could not decide whether to take offense at the question. “In what way?” he asked at last.

  “You have labored beside Sigurne Mellifas for the entirety of my life; if the various members of the Order are not mistaken, you have served, more or less diligently, for longer.” Given the petty jealousies endemic in the Order—or in any body in which people gathered—more or less was generous. “The Guildmaster of the Order appears frail, delicate, forgetful; the polite fiction among those of the Order who will condescend to speak with the talentless, is that this description is accurate. She is accompanied by Matteos Corvel; he is her right hand. He is, however, upstanding. In matters of delicacy, he will not move hand or foot across the line of his own ethics.

  “And yet, members of the Order with overweening ambition have perished.”

  Eyes glinted like sword edge.

  “I believe that you have some small attachment to the guildmaster, however poorly it is expressed. She is known for her war against the demon-kin. You are known for the part you have played in it. I cannot conceive of Sigurne Mellifas rejecting the responsibilities she has almost single-handedly made the focus of the magi—but if she does not, what would compel you to do so?”

  “A good question.” The response was mild, if chilly.

  Birgide waited. When it became clear that no further answer was forthcoming, she shrugged. She meant to ask Meralonne about the Sleepers, but the words would not leave her mouth; there was no politic way to ask the only question she suddenly felt was relevant. Not directly.

  “If you have no advice to offer in regards to namann, I will take my leave. While you consider the search unnecessary, the gods disagree, and I am beholden to at least one son of Cormaris.”

  “Would it surprise you to hear that I do not know?”

  She froze.

  “I cannot see the future; I cannot revisit the past. What I remember of days ancient and almost forgotten is stronger and more visceral than the decades I have spent in pointless labor within the Order. The world as it exists for you is not the world of my youth.”

  “No. Change is a constant.”

  “You are Warden, Birgide. It is not possible for petty illusions and polite fictions to fool you, unless you choose to be deluded. The world of Sigurne’s youth is not the world of mine, as you have long suspected.” He gestured, and the pipe vanished. “Namann is a creature from the time of my youth. The warnings I have offered are meant as an act of generosity.” Wind rose beneath the amethyst sky, touching only the mage’s platinum hair. “Listen, when you walk in the forest. Listen to the wind; listen to the leaves; listen. I do not know if you will ever hear the forest’s true voice—but the forest, clearly, has heard yours.” He glanced at her left hand; she lifted it, exposing the palm, that he might better inspect it.

  He reached out; the tips of his fingers stopped just short of a scar that was both luminescent and somehow metallic. In a voice far softer than she had yet heard from him, he said, “There is still wonder in this world; there are still surprises. You are mortal, Birgide, and yet you are Warden.

  “What do you understand your duties to be?”

  “I am guardian of the forest—and the wilderness—of Terafin. I am not The Terafin’s personal guard. She has no need of that—she has the Chosen, and they are far better than I would be.”

  “You are mistaken.”

  “No,” she said quietly, and with a sudden, visceral conviction, “I’m not. They occupy spaces that she will never allow me to occupy—and that is as it should be. I don’t know yet how I am to fulfill the duties I’ve accepted; I know only that I will find a way.” She hesitated, and then added, “I have never felt so strongly about anything in my life.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “Odd. Mortals experience a depth of instant emotion it is otherwise difficult to achieve. You spoke with the gods.”

  “I spoke only with Cormaris.” She hesitated. He marked it.

  “The Lord of Wisdom is concerned about the Sleepers. There is no other reason he would impel you to seek namann. You have so little time.”

  She made a decision, then. “He also spoke of the heralds.”

  “To you.”

  She nodded.

  “They are coming.” It was not a question.

  “So the gods believe.”

  His smile was as bright as his eyes. “Do not ask me to interfere, Birgide. Not even Sigurne would be so foolish. But I will tell you this: if any can impede their progress now, you can. You must understand what Jewel herself refuses to see: Terafin’s vast forest, its hidden pathways, the whole of its waking, wild majesty, are not confined to the simple, architectural plans of a manse and its lands.

  “There is a reason that the Ellariannatte grow in the Common—and until recently, only there.”

  Birgide was silent for one long beat. “Why do you think she refuses to see this if it is true?” She did not accuse the mage of error. Had he been a mortal First Circle mage, such an accusation would have offended him for life. “She is a power. She is one of The Ten, arguably at the head of the most powerful House. Anything that increases that power preserves the House and its stability.”

  “That is, no doubt, what the rest of The Ten—and the Lord of the Compact—feel. Their feelings are not materially relevant. What she will not acknowledge is nonetheless truth; acknowledge it and work with it if you are to preserve what you have vowed to preserve. More than that, I cannot or will not say.”

  “What do you want, APhaniel?”

  “From you? Nothing.”

  “At all.”

  “Would it surprise you to hear that I do not desire the destruction of this vain, gray mortal city?”

  She was no longer certain.

  “Three of the heralds will travel along the ancient roads. You are not conversant with the lay of the hidden land; before they approach this city, you will not be aware of their existence. But when they do, Birgide, if you listen carefully and mind the small perturbations in your preserve, you will know. You cannot, I think, kill them; nor can you bar their passage permanently. Jewel could, if she were present and she were focused—but she does not walk the whole of her domains, and because she does not, they are less secure than they might otherwise be.

  “You are therefore left with few choices and few options. You may misdirect them. You may, with effort, shift the paths they walk. The forest itself might bespeak them—I cannot say. It has not chosen to directly speak with me, and I have wandered beneath its many boughs.”

  “There is a fourth herald.”

  “Yes. But he will not walk roads you can directly influence yet. If he is to be stopped at all, he will be stopped by the mortal guards and bureaucrats who gather in this city’s many buildings like rats. And because he does, and can, he is not, in the end, to be feared.”

  “What purpose do the heralds serve?”

  “They will wake the Sleepers,” Meralonne replied, “when they reach their sides. They will carry the regalia of their forgotten office; they will remind them of everything they have lost. In loss, they will be at their most dangerous.”

  “What will stop them?” she asked, her voice dropping to a whisper.

  “The Terafin, if she returns.” His tone of voice was wrong; it was grim and edged.

  “Meralonne—”

  “Enough. I have said enough. Leave me.” It was a command
. Nor did Birgide disobey it—not immediately. But she turned as she reached a standing, wrought-iron arch. Flowers bloomed across its height, as if it had been designed as a trellis and not the gate she now knew it was.

  “What will happen to The Terafin?”

  “I cannot answer that question with any certainty. She will arrive, either alone, or in the company of the only being alive who can command the Sleepers and expect to be obeyed. If she arrives alone, there is only one path open to her if she is to save the city that is at her heart.”

  “And that?”

  Softly, so softly Birgide thought she should have missed hearing the reply, he said, “She is Sen.”

  15th of Morel, 428 A.A.

  The Placid Sea, Averalaan Aramarelas

  Jester found Marrick difficult because he was a hard man to distrust. Absent his actual presence, it was much simpler: Marrick had a web of connections through the patriciate, the merchant Houses, and the guilds. He had a sizable amount of money, and a personality that inclined all but the most suspicious to be of aid to him where it was not too costly.

  In person, Marrick was amiable, friendly, and disinclined to the type of betrayal that characterized a man like Ludgar. Or Rymark. Jester’s visceral dislike of patricians came to his rescue—but only barely.

  Marrick lacked Elonne’s sophisticated polish; he lacked Haerrad’s aura of brute, physical strength. What he donned, instead, was the patina of a distant, but much loved uncle—the man to whom you went for fun, rather than discipline. He wore it now, in the Placid Sea. He managed to get things done, his demeanor implied, by raw luck. As if a life like Marrick’s could somehow be stumbled across by a friendly, unthreatening, older man.

  They had been given a table suitable for Marrick’s rank within the House—but it was not in an entirely private room. The owner of the Placid Sea was proud to have a senior member of the Terafin House Council as his customer, and wished his custom to be known. Had Marrick demanded a private room, one would certainly have been made available—but in keeping with Marrick’s easygoing, public persona, he was willing to be put on display if it was of aid to the owner.

  Jester chatted with Marrick while food came and disappeared; he chatted while wine did the same, at slightly lesser speeds. Marrick’s laugh punctuated the low level conversation of the rest of the dining room, and heads turned frequently on the off-chance that some glimpse of whatever caused this good humor might be afforded at a distance.

  In the case of the last laugh, it was the stone that Jester placed on the table. He looked rueful as he activated it, and this was genuine. Haval had conveyed it to Jester with curt, but specific, instructions. Since the stone itself did not contravene the laws of exception, Jester had grudgingly accepted it. He had no objections to the stone itself.

  What he disliked was the conversation that was to follow. Jester did not, as a rule, speak about anything important. He disliked the pretension. He disliked the target it made of him.

  But he was going to be wearing a target regardless, in the foreseeable future; he was Finch’s adjutant on a Council that was about to be crashed by no less a person than Jarven. The reactions of every other member of the House Council to Jarven’s presence were possibly the only thing about it that Jester looked forward to seeing.

  “What,” he said, removing his hand from both stone and table, “would you say if I told you we have definitive proof that Rymark was responsible for The Terafin’s death?” He grimaced, and added, “Amarais Handernesse ATerafin.”

  “You’re still not used to the change,” Marrick noted.

  Jester shrugged. “The current Terafin refers to Amarais as The Terafin. I doubt that’s going to change in the next year. Or five. If it doesn’t offend her, I don’t worry about it.”

  The easy smile remained on Marrick’s face. “Do you have definitive proof?”

  “The Terafin does.”

  “Would that be the reason Rymark has chosen to throw his lot in with hers?”

  It was Jester’s turn to laugh; his laughter was unusually bitter. “You threw your lot in with hers after The Terafin’s funeral. Rymark serves himself, and only himself. You must be aware that he’s already starting to make waves in the House Council.”

  Marrick shrugged. It was an easy, natural motion. Jester’s shrug clearly needed practice. “The hummingbird doesn’t change its wings. You are not, I note, concerned about Haerrad.”

  “Haerrad is what he is. He’s relatively predictable. He acts in what he views as his own interests, but he hates to lose. Making a war unappealing for a man like Haerrad is simply a matter of making it appear to be a losing battle.”

  “While appealing to his self-interest?”

  “I don’t think it matters. Haerrad won’t trust anyone as far as he can spit them. He assumes that everyone approaches him with their own self-interest in mind; loyalty is a matter of how strongly the interests coincide.”

  “You are being surprisingly expansive this afternoon.”

  “Lack of solid drink,” Jester muttered. “You haven’t answered my question.”

  “It seems, at this vantage, to be purely speculative. I assume there is more to it than that. If you wish me to wax philosophical—and given it’s you, I will contain my shock and consternation—I can do so. You’ve never been one for such discussions.”

  “I admit they put me off the lunch I’m paying for, yes.”

  “Well, then. What would I say? Probably, ‘Let me see your proof.’ Given your expression, this would leave the rest of the conversation hanging in the air—although your attempt to start it implies that you may have brought proof with you, if that were possible. Rymark is cautious. You are too famously lazy to manufacture proof, and The Terafin—your Terafin—is too scrupulous to allow it, regardless. Humor an old man, Jester. What is your angle, here?”

  Jester and Haval had argued to a standstill on three separate occasions. It galled Jester to have to cede the tailor any ground. “I am out of angles,” he replied—as Haval had advised. “There have been two separate attempts on the life of Finch ATerafin.”

  Marrick’s smile hung, empty, on his face. It did not, as it had for Jester when he’d first heard the news, vacate that face entirely. “Since The Terafin’s leave of absence.”

  Jester nodded.

  “Word of these attempts has not reached the House Council.”

  “I should hope not. It only barely reached the den.”

  “And Finch has installed Jarven upon the House Council to counteract the possible threat?”

  Jester laughed. “Finch was opposed to the idea from the beginning; The Terafin acceded.”

  “She seems wiser than that.”

  “She doesn’t trust Jarven, no.”

  “And Finch?”

  “Finch knows him better than any of us—and she was the one who advised against it. But there’s no possibility, in my mind, that Jarven is responsible for the attempts. Had he been, she’d be dead.”

  “You’re certain.”

  “I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life. Inasmuch as he can be, Jarven is now looking out for Finch. But Finch is capable of looking out for herself.”

  “And that’s why we’re here?”

  “No. We’re here to discuss the fate of Rymark ATerafin—and the regency.”

  At that, finally, Marrick’s smile deserted his face. “Why the regency?” he asked. If the smile had vanished, the easy, indulgent tone had not.

  “Finch intends to hold it.”

  “And not the right-kin.”

  “The right-kin has his hands full, and he wasn’t trained by a wolf to preside over a den of overweening sharks.”

  “It did not occur to Finch to bring this to my attention herself.”

  “No. She has no idea I’m here.”

  “And why are you here, then?”
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  “Because I’m lazy. I don’t want her power. Or The Terafin’s. Or even yours. I want a better drink than the Placid Sea offers important guests at lunch. I want to sleep in until dawn is well past me. And I want Finch to survive.” Jester leaned back in his chair, studying Marrick’s lined face. “I don’t know how many people you actually trust; you certainly don’t trust me. Haerrad trusts no one. Rymark trusts no one. Elonne trusts a select handful.”

  “And me?”

  “As I said, I don’t know. I trust no one outside of my den. I trust my den absolutely. What Finch takes, as regent, she will hold in trust. When Jay returns, she’ll step aside. She’ll do it happily. My other suggestion was you.”

  Marrick laughed, then. “Me?”

  “You. Even if you want to hold on to the power you claim, you’ll surrender it for the sake of the House. I won’t ask.”

  “You are an interesting young man,” Marrick said, lifting his wine glass. “An amusing, interesting young man. What position will Jarven hold?”

  “He will hold a senior Council seat.”

  “Greater in theoretical power than the seat Finch herself holds.”

  “His pride is overbearing. He has been a singular power in the House because of his duties at the Merchant Authority; he will not stoop to halve his power for a lesser consideration.”

  “I admit that I have had few dealings with Jarven. It is not always considered wise where it is unnecessary. If you mean to ask me to support Finch as regent, I cannot answer immediately.”

  “Of course not. You’ll have your list of demands.”

  “Concessions is the word generally used.”

  “By the well-heeled and well-educated, yes. But if I’m not to play at being a gadfly, I don’t have the energy to prettify.”

  “You, of course, have asked for nothing.”

  “I’ve asked to have things resolved as quickly as possible so I can return with good conscience to the dissolute life.”