Oracle: The House War: Book Six

by Michelle West

  This was obvious enough, it amused Jarven. Hectore’s concern for Andrei was sufficient that he welcomed Jarven’s amusement.

  Andrei, however, did not. It often amused Hectore to note just how tightly Andrei held his grudges. He would, no doubt, find it amusing when they were quit of the Merchant Authority, but it was inconvenient at the moment.

  “Hectore,” Andrei said again. He was smiling. It was the smile of resignation, almost of surrender. Hectore hated it on sight, it so seldom graced Andrei’s face.

  The Patris Araven turned to Birgide, but was surprised; Finch stepped between them. She reached out to touch Hectore’s arm, and it fell immediately into the accommodating position one assumed when one offered to escort a young woman. He started to drop his arm; Finch’s hand tightened, briefly, over it. “Birgide,” she said quietly, “is special. She is newly ATerafin, at my discretion.”

  Jarven frowned. “That is not your right.”

  “It’s Teller’s right,” she countered, in a tone of voice so soft and so reasonable only the truculent could pursue disagreement. “Jay will either confirm or deny it when she returns.”

  “If she returns.”

  This caused Finch’s lips to thin and her hand to involuntarily tighten; in no other way did she acknowledge Jarven. Hectore had her attention. “You’ve seen The Terafin’s cats.”

  Hectore nodded.

  “You saw the dress she wore on the first day of the funeral.”

  “I considered it both a privilege—on my part—and a coup, on hers. I do not think, however, that she intended her clothing to be the political statement it most certainly was.” He smiled fondly at the memory.

  “And you saw the trees.”

  “We all saw the trees.”

  “The forest in the back of the manse is forbidden to visitors. It is Birgide’s belief that, should the wrong person intrude, they might never find their way out again.”

  Silence.

  “But Birgide has been to the heart of the forest. There is nothing in it she has not seen. You took dinner with The Terafin in her personal quarters.”

  Hectore nodded slowly. “The forest is like those rooms?”

  “Yes. Birgide has been chosen by the—” she hesitated. It was rare to see hesitation of this kind from Finch. “—Spirit, I suppose; I don’t have a better word for it. She has been chosen by the spirit of that forest to stand as its guardian.”

  “She is not simple guardian,” Andrei added quietly.

  “No. I didn’t assume it was simple. But she serves as the go-between. She is tasked with protecting the forest, and she has been given the tools with which to achieve that in some small measure.” She hesitated again. Jarven was utterly still, his face a mask. He had shifted position in his chair, although he did not rise. “She sees what we can’t see.

  “I don’t know what she sees when she looks at Andrei. I don’t know,” Finch added, turning to face the Araven servant, “what she sees. I see Andrei, as I have seen him by your side. I understand his import to you.”

  Hectore thought, given the softness she forced into her voice, that she saw a great deal more than that. He was not Jarven; he had not made a practice of hiding himself; nor did he shift personality at whim and his own convenience.

  “I understand, as well, that his expertise is, in some fashion, the greater when it comes to things that are best left in the hands of the talent-born or the god-born. But what we face, we will all face—talent-born, god-born, King or commoner. A threat to the Empire, a threat to the city itself, threatens us all. We would not—ever—attempt to deprive you of Andrei’s service. Given his forbearance to date, I’m not certain that’s even possible.

  “Instead, we ask that you consider our circumstances and decide how much you wish to be involved in them. If, in the end, you consider it unwise, both of you will be free to go.”

  “The Kings might have a different opinion,” Jarven said. He had slid into a quiet, steady voice; it was shorn of amusement or the petulance of his aged, infirm act.

  “Not even the Kings would be unwise enough to confront Hectore of Araven directly,” Finch countered. There was steel in the reply. “Nor, in my opinion, would they choose to accuse Terafin of malfeasance. That would require the consensus of The Ten.” Her tone made clear that she thought the probability of consensus among that august group to be approaching zero.

  “I have some idea,” Hectore replied, “of what the city now faces. I am not at liberty to discuss it; I have been informed that the discussion itself would be considered an act of treason.”

  Jarven laughed.

  Andrei pinched the bridge of his nose. Giving amusement of any kind to Jarven was not his life’s ambition. Finch offered the servant a sympathetic look, which Jarven could not fail to note.

  “He is dangerous,” the Terafin gardener told the Terafin House Council member.

  “Yes, of course he is. But he’s served Hectore for all of my life.”

  “You cannot be certain of that.”

  “I can be as certain of it as I am of anything.”

  Jarven coughed.

  “I am not you, Jarven,” Finch replied, as if the obvious criticism had been spoken aloud. “I need some certainty in my life. The Terafin met with Hectore. She could not, therefore, avoid meeting Andrei. She said nothing; she offered no warning; she felt no danger.

  “She was in command of her forest, even then. Had Andrei been the danger that either you or Birgide perceive, I believe she would have.”

  “You and The Terafin have different skills.”

  “We always have. She taught us to trust even the most difficult of people—and Andrei has never been that.”

  “ATerafin—” Birgide began. She shook her head. “Councillor.”

  “Finch.”

  “Finch. I feel this is unwise.”

  Finch nodded, unruffled. “Your objections are understood.”

  “No,” Birgide surprised Hectore by replying, “they are not. What you see before you is not human.”

  Finch shrugged. The motion was economical, and to Hectore’s surprise, unforced. “He wouldn’t be the only occupant of the Terafin manse who is not.”

  “He is not an occupant of the Terafin manse while I live and breathe,” Hectore interjected.

  “It was a figure of speech. Is he demonic?”

  Birgide’s hesitation was marked by everyone in the room.

  “Birgide.”

  “. . . No.”

  “And what is he, then?” Jarven asked. He chose that moment to rise, shedding, as he did the patina of weakness that generally came with age. He was like, and unlike, Sigurne.

  Birgide closed her eyes. Hectore struggled not to feel offense on Andrei’s behalf, but gave up; it was not a struggle worth having.

  “You are like a doting parent, Hectore,” Jarven observed.

  “That has never caused me harm, before.”

  “It is not, generally, the parent who suffers.”

  Andrei’s expression soured further. His attitude was in line with Jarven’s, and, of course, it pained him. He looked entirely like himself. Even the injuries that had troubled him seemed to have gone the way of Jarven’s age-induced weakness.

  “I was once considered of the god-born,” Andrei told Birgide. “Although it is my suspicion you are aware of this.”

  “I met recently with Meralonne APhaniel,” she replied. “And his mastery of things ancient was considered unsurpassed within the Order. Grudgingly. I believe he was aware of your presence in a way that the rest of the city was not.”

  “And he did not speak of it.”

  “Not until today, no. He considers any attempt to communicate with you both dangerous and unwise.”

  Hectore cleared his throat. He was accustomed to receiving attention the moment he desired it; it
was slow to come, today. “You are saying that Member APhaniel knew that Andrei was in the city, and did not choose to mention it to the Order—or his guildmaster—at all?”

  “I am not privy to the communications between APhaniel and Sigurne Mellifas,” was Birgide’s careful reply. “My tenure at the order involved very little casual contact with the magi.” A politic answer. An answer that demanded other questions.

  Finch inhaled once. The silence of her breath lasted three beats before she exhaled. “Patris Araven, I would like to invite you to dine with me, on an evening of your choice, in my quarters in the Terafin manse.” She did not mention Andrei. She did not even look at him. Hectore had been fond of Finch—one could not help feeling the deepest of sympathy for anyone trapped in an office under Jarven—but this single decisive action on her part was so graceful and so unexpected, fondness gave way to something stronger.

  He had agreed to aid Jewel—The Terafin—because he thought of her as an unofficial grandchild—the daughter of Ararath, the most heartbreakingly difficult of his many godsons. Jewel had sent him to Finch. And in this office, Hectore accepted that he would offer aid to Finch should Jewel no longer require it. Finch was not Jewel. She had no discernible magic, no inborn talent. She was forced—as Hectore had been—to navigate the shoals of infested, political waters with nothing but guile, ambition, and will.

  “I am offended,” Jarven told her quietly.

  “Oh?”

  “You have never invited me to dine in the West Wing.”

  “I have—I believe I invited both you and Lucille to visit.”

  “I note you are not inviting me now.”

  “I suspect that I won’t be able to keep you away unless I wish to cause significant internal embarrassment to the Merchant Authority offices.” Her brow furrowed. “Very well—but can you please stop teasing Jester? It makes him uncomfortable, and I have to live with him.”

  “Given your current situation in the House, you most certainly do not. Quarters would be made available for your personal use—and yours alone—if you but asked.”

  “Don’t change the subject. If you will treat Jester as an intelligent, capable peer, you are welcome to join us.”

  “I could treat him like the Twin Kings and it would only increase his hostility and suspicion.”

  “Much of which, you must admit, you deserve.”

  “You wound me, Finch.” He smiled.

  “Not noticeably.” Finch smiled as well. “Patris Araven? Would dinner with Jarven suit you?”

  Andrei looked like he had swallowed glass. It was immeasurably comforting. “I almost cannot imagine doing this without him,” Hectore confessed. “Although I would be greatly obliged if you managed to finagle an acceptance out of Lucille. Jarven is at his best when he is with her.”

  “He is not.”

  “He is—all of his mischief in her presence involves his dignity alone; it is otherwise benign.”

  Finch laughed. “She is not terribly fond of you.”

  “No, and that’s a pity. I bear her no ill will; I have admired her—at a safe distance—for decades.”

  “When do you think you will be available?”

  “Given Jarven’s command of the Merchants’ Guild during this time of crisis, I have remarkably little to do. If you felt it appropriate, I could join you tomorrow evening.”

  “The early dinner hour?”

  “I would be delighted.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  THE SILENCE WAS BOTH cold and heated as they jogged. Jewel could manage to run in spurts—but not for long. The attachments Terrick had fashioned for the feet of those who could not skirt above the snow’s surface made her widen her stance; Terrick had said it was unnecessary, but she still hadn’t developed the knack of moving naturally. The pack she carried slowed her down; Avandar took it. Terrick and Angel were already encumbered; Adam, on foot, bore tenting which had seen almost no use in the winter landscape.

  Shianne’s song continued for some time. The earth shifted twice beneath Jewel’s feet, a rumbling that made her knees feel like water. She understood that earth, air, and water in their wild, elemental forms, had voices; she had never heard them speak. Even in her own land, on her own ground, she had been aware of them as presences—but as intruders, as unwelcome guests.

  No, she thought, stumbling as the ground shuddered again.

  On some fundamental level she felt, about the elements on that day, the way she felt about her great, winged cats. She had been angry. Beyond angry. She would have been just as furious at her cats if they had attempted to have one of their squalling fights in the middle of the service, although their squalling fights couldn’t cause the same level of destruction.

  She had not been regal with the wild elements; she had not been graceful. She had kicked them out of the room and told them to clean up their damn mess first.

  She slowed to catch her breath.

  She’d told them to take their toys and go home. She would have told the cats the same thing. Both the elements and the cats understood her when she spoke in genuine anger. Exasperation? No; that was safe to ignore. Of course it was; Jewel ignored it all the time. Living in a two-room apartment with so many disparate personalities, that had become second nature.

  She would never, on the other hand, enter someone else’s home and expect that her rules would be obeyed if she laid them down in the same fashion.

  But even that wasn’t all of the truth. In desperation, the division between “home” and “outside” vanished. She could not command Isladar in the way she commanded the cats or the elements; she could not command the two demons who had ventured into the heart of the wild forest in which she could make a stand. But she had taken the road against the Wild Hunt, and she had held it, making of it something that spoke to her: the streets of the hundred holdings.

  How had she done that? How had she managed? Desperation couldn’t be the answer. She had been beyond desperate too many times in her life, and the universe had failed to move as she desired.

  Rules. She wanted rules. She wanted to know how this world worked, because knowledge was the only hope she had. “Isladar.”

  He could, she was certain, run for days without pause. The dead didn’t need to eat. Or breathe. Or rest.

  “Terafin.”

  “What is a Sen?”

  “You have not asked Viandaran or Lord Celleriant?”

  “It wasn’t relevant before.”

  “It is, and was, always relevant. Do you feel that ignorance excuses responsibility?” He lifted a hand, signaling a stop, before she could answer. In truth, answering while running had been a trial.

  Shadow was giving Isladar the side-eye. His hackles had fallen, but he was twitchy and tense. Jewel placed a hand on his forehead the minute they came to rest, ignoring the murmured threats to eat that hand.

  “I would answer the question if I could,” Isladar told her. He was not lying.

  No. Why do you think that is? Avandar asked.

  Because the answer wouldn’t do her any good. Knowing this, she still felt compelled to listen. To hear what he was willing to put into words. Even the absence of information would give her some basic structure, some underlying shape.

  “Do your kin know more than you do?”

  “Only one. Only one, among all of my kin. It is my belief that you and he will cross paths. For the first time since the devastation, he has taken a pet. Perhaps you know of whom I speak; you traveled with the Arkosan Voyani when they entered the Sea of Sorrows. I do not know if he could answer your questions; I do not think the Sen themselves, gathered in one place, could—not that they could coexist in one place.

  “There is a reason that the Cities of Man never grew—the way human cities oft will—to form kingdoms or empires. The Sen are as gods in their own small spaces.”

  “And wha
t,” Jewel asked, as he raised both arms until they were perpendicular to the straight, slender line of his body, “are the gods? What were they, then?”

  His eyes opened; he had closed them, as if to concentrate. “I can think of very few who would follow your first question with that one.”

  “Why?”

  “You have met gods.”

  “And I don’t understand what they are any better than I understand, in the end, what you are. I understand that you’re predators. I understand that your prey is mostly us. I understand that, where we can, we must destroy you—and I even understand some of how to do it. But the knowledge is practical.”

  “Viandaran, I do not think you appreciate what you have chosen to serve.”

  Avandar said nothing.

  “The gods as they once existed are not what they are now. Nor were any two gods alike. If the Sen could not occupy the same city without disastrous results, the gods could barely content themselves with occupying entire small worlds—worlds such as this one. You ask me to define the gods for you? Terafin, we barely understood them ourselves. They were not as we were, even when we lived. We could touch the wilderness; we could cajole it, and where powerful, we could bend it to our will.

  “But we did not create it. We did not make it.”

  “But the gods had children.”

  He nodded.

  “And their children had children. If I understand, in the end, anything Shianne said, you were—when alive—the children of the White Lady.”

  • • •

  He paused, although he did not lower his arms. “You are bold, even for a mortal.”

  “Is this why the demons seem to recognize Illaraphaniel?”

  “Too bold. I will give advice, although it is the way of your kind to ignore it if it does not suit your whim. Do not ask him. Never ask him.”

  “And never ask the Kialli, either?”

  “Very few of the Kialli will speak with you—and those you are likely to encounter will desire your death, regardless. It may hasten the death; it may intensify the ferocity of the attack. It may—should it prove necessary—distract, where distraction is a possibility. Do not ask.”