Oracle: The House War: Book Six

by Michelle West

  “Were you aware of what occurred when the demon was in control of your body?”

  Haerrad shuddered. “Yes.”

  Finch exhaled. She turned to Hectore and Andrei, and offered them both a deep bow. “Patris Araven.”

  He nodded in return. “ATerafin.”

  “My apologies for the interrupted meal. I think it wise, at this juncture, that we attempt to resume the meal when things are less . . . fraught.”

  He chuckled. “You will, I think, be busy in the foreseeable future.”

  “Not, I hope, too busy to meet with you.” She turned to Haerrad. “I think it is time to visit the healerie. There were Chosen stationed outside of this room. Are they still alive?”

  “I did not walk to this room from the manse,” Haerrad replied. “I did not encounter Chosen until I entered this room.”

  “How did you arrive at the manse?”

  “It is not clear to me. I have never paid the exorbitant price the magi charge to travel instantly from one locale to another—I am therefore unable to compare the two experiences. I was at the Placid Sea, having dinner with another member of the House Council. In the middle of dinner, I rose and left the building; when I was in an unoccupied stretch of street, I stepped through this door.”

  “Impossible.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  HECTORE FROWNED AND turned in the direction of the single voice; his expression made clear that the man who had dared to speak had broken iron social rules. Haerrad was, and had always been, a staunch defender of formal hierarchy.

  Andrei was a servant. He did not add to the word he had dared to speak.

  Birgide Viranyi, however, turned to Andrei. “How? He is demonstrably present.” She was not dressed as a servant; Finch thought it likely that Haerrad knew she was at least affiliated with the Household Staff.

  “It should be no more possible to reach this room from the Common than it is to reach it from the foyer. If Haerrad ATerafin were dead, I do not believe the Kialli could have entered these rooms—or this manse—at all.”

  “Why would it make a difference?” Jester asked as if he had a personal preference for Haerrad’s state.

  “The mortal and the immortal do not generally coexist in the same state. The wilderness knows its own. If a demon arrived in the manse—through the trade entrance—it is my belief Birgide would know. But this was far more subtle.”

  “You do not think the subtlety accidental,” Jarven said.

  Haerrad was no fool; he now understood that, in this room, Andrei was considered an expert. Inclined to suspicion as he was, he nonetheless accepted that this particular servant would speak.

  “No. I think it impossible.”

  “Which means,” Teller said, joining the conversation, “that you think the demons know three things. One: that The Terafin is absent. Two: that Birgide is Warden. And three: that Birgide doesn’t fully understand the limits of her abilities.”

  Andrei nodded; he was frowning. Andrei often frowned, but not in this fashion. “Even were they apprised of all three, it should be impossible for the Council member to arrive in the fashion he claimed he arrived. It is not—” Andrei lifted his face toward a ceiling of rounded, twined vines. “Warden,” he said, his voice both soft and sharp.

  Birgide nodded.

  “Have you encountered the god-born in your tenure?”

  “None,” Birgide replied, “save you.”

  Andrei winced. Hectore grimaced. It was, however, Andrei who spoke. “My question was poorly phrased.” Birgide did not generally look at him for long, but forced herself to meet his eyes. “There is another hand at work, here. I do not believe it to be mortal. The mage-born have power—and that power will grow, now; none can forestall it. But that power is not knowledge.

  “Power is not knowledge; it is another’s knowledge that has been used.”

  And Finch said, “The Warden of Dreams.”

  • • •

  Andrei turned to face her, Haerrad all but forgotten. His expression was as neutral as Haval’s. Jarven did not bother with neutrality; he was instantly, identifiably, annoyed. Finch had, his demeanor implied, kept information from him—and it was information he considered both necessary and serious.

  Haerrad—never a man who liked to be considered inconsequential—came to her rescue. “What, exactly, is the Warden of Dreams?” His tone was one step shy of open ridicule.

  “I do not fully understand it myself,” Finch replied—as if she were seated in Council. “When The Terafin fell, briefly, to the sleeping sickness, it was due to the machinations of the Warden of Dreams. He almost killed her.”

  “We did not hear of that.”

  “No. The House Council, given the assassination of the previous Terafin, was not considered secure. The Terafin chose to keep that information to herself; she had clashed—in her chambers—with the Warden of Dreams, and she had survived to drive him off. We thought he was no longer a threat.” She turned to Andrei. “Is he here?”

  “I am not the ruler of these lands,” Andrei replied. “Were I, I could answer your question. But I see their hand in this. It is subtle.” He hesitated. Everyone in the room marked it, Hectore with growing impatience. Without turning to face his erstwhile master, Andrei said, “I am endeavoring to answer the question, Hectore. A little patience would not be misplaced.”

  Jarven chuckled.

  This did not notably improve Andrei’s concentration. “The Warden takes power from dreaming. You understand this.”

  Finch nodded, for it was to Finch that Andrei had turned—not Birgide, not Hectore.

  “Mortals sleep. Mortals dream. We used to wonder if mortals were created for just that purpose. They brought a strength and majesty to the Warden of Dreams that they had never possessed prior. Immortals do not require sleep. Should they choose to do so—and there are those who did—they have ways of protecting themselves against the incursion of dreams. I will not say they do not dream—but their dreams are not like yours.

  “If sleep, however, does not come to them at a manner or time of their own choosing . . .”

  Finch closed her eyes.

  “You understand.”

  She did. She lifted her hands; they fluttered, briefly, in the open before they fell, trembling slightly, to her sides. “If—if those sleepers wake, will the Warden’s manipulation cease?”

  Andrei did not answer immediately, but he did answer. For the first time since she had met him, his demeanor suggested endless age, and the wisdom that comes from merely existing for so long. “If those sleepers wake, everything the Wardens have attempted or accomplished to date will seem trivial and harmless.” He lifted his chin and turned, once again, to the Terafin Warden, who was so different from the Warden of Dreams. “The Terafin is not present,” he told her gently. “I can do what must be done—but I cannot do it without your permission, and that permission must be given in more than simple words.”

  And Finch, watching Birgide, realized that no such visceral permission would be forthcoming. Had she believed it might be, she would have argued or demanded compliance—but Birgide could not even look at Andrei for long. What she saw—what no one else in the room could see—so repulsed her, trust was not a possibility.

  And it would take trust. Andrei, Finch saw, accepted this. There was not even a trace of bitterness. “Can you do nothing without that permission?”

  “I can do what the Warden can do,” Andrei replied. “Ah, no, forgive me; I can trespass in the way the Warden can.”

  “Jay let you in.”

  Andrei nodded.

  “Jay never saw you the way—the way Birgide does.”

  “I am less contained than I was when last I entered your home.”

  Finch folded her arms in almost unconscious mimicry of Jay.

  “Has Lucille not told you that if y
ou make faces like that one, your face might freeze that way?” Jarven asked, highly amused. “You look like a younger version of Lucille—and may I remind you that I can only barely survive one?”

  She glanced at him, and he did laugh. Finch then focused her attention on Andrei. “You fail to understand The Terafin. She accepted you. She accepted your presence here, in her private chambers. Contained or no, if you were a danger—to us—she would have known. I don’t know what she sees when she looks at you; I know she can see demons, no matter how cleverly they’re disguised. She knows when someone is lying to her, but she’s always been politic enough to accept the lies that are harmless.”

  Haval cleared his throat. Finch turned a glare on him, which made Jarven laugh.

  “I won’t say she trusted you,” she continued, as if there had been no interruption. “None of the den trust easily.”

  Jarven coughed.

  “Honestly, I am going to strangle one—or both—of you if you keep this up. You are embarrassing me in public.”

  It was, of course, Hectore who laughed.

  Andrei did not; he seemed to find the interruptions as irritating as Finch did. Another reason to like him, but if she were honest, Finch didn’t require it. His service to Hectore would have moved her, regardless. She wasn’t Jay—no one was. But here, she trusted her instincts. Andrei would do nothing, ever, that would harm Hectore.

  And Hectore was here, with them, amused in spite of the seriousness of the situation.

  That amusement fell away when Birgide stiffened and the ground beneath their collective feet shuddered. Shards of plates and cups scattered.

  • • •

  Jester was closest to Birgide; when the discussion had drifted—mentally and physically—toward Haerrad, who had managed to bind his own wound, because no one else was stupid enough to offer, Jester had returned to her side. He saw her eyes flash—literally flash—red; he saw her skin’s pallor shift. She looked almost like an animate corpse.

  Jester raised a hand, flexed it briefly. He tossed the consecrated dagger away; it could be used effectively against demons only once, and against anything else, he had better weapons—if weapons were going to be useful at all.

  The ground shook again; he bent into his knees, riding the tremor, and looked up to see that Finch was supporting Jarven. Andrei had not moved; Hectore was watching Birgide. Of course. The Araven merchant trusted Andrei, even if Birgide—or anyone else in the room—would not.

  The walls of the dining room peeled away, almost literally, as if they were simple wallpaper, and someone was removing them in strips. The ceiling, already transformed, remained in place, but as the walls came down, Jester could see the trees around which the vines above their heads were twined. The Kings’ trees. Ellariannatte.

  He could see the forest that lay hidden behind the Terafin manse: a glimmering in the distance of silver, gold, and hard, hard diamond. He could not see the bookshelves or the ornamental standing arches that led back to the rest of the manse. The dining room had been moved—or perhaps only its living occupants. Those included Haerrad.

  Andrei looked at the distant trees—and at the Ellariannatte that now towered above them. He then turned to Hectore. “I would ask that you not interfere,” he told his master.

  “I never interfere unless it is necessary.”

  “That is stretching the definition of necessity to the breaking point, Hectore.”

  The Araven patris laughed; it was a wild, almost exuberant sound. Andrei grimaced, but did not add further to the inexplicable hilarity.

  The ground here did not move beneath Jester’s feet. The vines that had formed roofing retreated, and in their wake, revealed sky. That sky was blue; it looked very much like normal sky. It was not, however, empty.

  In the distance, visible only because there was very little cloud cover, he could see two figures; they were limned in red and blue. Meralonne, as the demon within Haerrad had said, was clearly occupied.

  “Birgide—why did you bring us here?” Jester asked, not liking the look of the aerial fight. “We’re too exposed.”

  Birgide, teeth clenched, said, “I didn’t choose the location. This is where we have to be.”

  “Why?”

  If he could have clawed the question back, he would have. He saw from her expression that there was no answer she could give: she hadn’t chosen. He put a hand lightly on her shoulder, something he rarely did, even among the den. To his surprise she reached up and briefly crushed that hand. Nor did she release it.

  Jester glanced to his left; the Captains of the Chosen, armed, were scouting the clearing. They had heard both Jester’s question and Birgide’s stiff silence. Torvan asked one terse question.

  “Are we safe, here?”

  “Yes. For now.”

  “Are you aware of anything that might attack us here that’s immune to steel?”

  “No.” Birgide hesitated, and then added, “I don’t think there are other demons.” Saying that, she looked to the sky. “. . . Other than the one Meralonne APhaniel has engaged.”

  Torvan nodded. He turned to Arrendas, and they both looked to Teller and Finch; neither was happy at the lack of accessible backup. Jester was less concerned; Birgide and Haval were the equal of any of the Chosen when it came to combat. He privately suspected that Birgide was better.

  “Can you help Meralonne?” Jester asked, looking skyward.

  Birgide shook her head; her lips moved, but not deliberately enough to eject actual words. Her hand—the hand that was not curved around his as if to pin it in place—began to glow. Her brows furrowed; her eyes brightened. The latter made her seem inhuman, other. But her hand, where it pressed against his, was simple flesh, and it trembled. No sign of that fear otherwise touched her features.

  Small colored globes left her hand as she gestured, flying to a point between the combatants and their audience; they exploded there. Trails of resultant light—orange, red, gold—shot out, as if those tiny globes had been simple fireworks.

  But the light they shed remained in the sky.

  Jester was not surprised when the trees began to move. He was, however, surprised—and not a little uneasy—when Finch called Haerrad to her side, and Haerrad obeyed.

  The canopy of light did not encompass either Meralonne or his opponent—and even at this distance, the mage was unmistakable. He had, about him, a savagery and joy that Jester had witnessed before, in the foyer of the manse that lay beyond the trees. But he fought with sword against an opponent who also wielded shield.

  Not even the demon that had destroyed the foyer in the Henden of 410 had been his match. “Birgide—”

  “Not yet,” she whispered, her voice thin and dry.

  Jester would have asked for more information, but Andrei said, “Jester.”

  He turned.

  “They are coming.”

  “They?” Jester said, as the trees shifted again, and the earth trembled—for that little bit too long—beneath his feet.

  “Your permission,” Andrei said again, to Birgide.

  Birgide hesitated.

  Hectore said, “Her permission is irrelevant. You do not have mine.”

  “Hectore—”

  “I mean it.” He spoke with strength and certainty; his voice carried. It carried, Jester thought, a greater distance than it should have, given the storm of noise above.

  “I will not see you die here,” Andrei replied.

  “No, you will not. I know you will not die here, regardless of the outcome. I can live with that. But I will not senselessly lose you because you are mothering me.”

  Teller coughed. It surprised Jester; he recognized the particular sound of cut-off amusement.

  Haval and Jarven were silent and watchful, but their gazes flickered around the clearing, gauging and measuring what they saw. Even the movement of t
rees, as roots broke earth and the standing shape of the forest became a log-wall clearing around the gathered dinner companions, did not fully hold their attention.

  • • •

  “Will he win?” Jarven asked casually, when he looked up.

  Haval nodded. “It is not for the mage that I am concerned.”

  Jarven’s smile was grim, but focused and amused. His eyes were bright. Haval’s were not. They were both, in their fashion, armed, although Jarven was less obvious about it. Haval saw no pragmatic need to dissemble among the men and women gathered here—with one obvious exception; Jarven saw no particular reason to be open. Haval had oft wondered if Jarven ATerafin was actually capable of trust.

  Trust, however, was unnecessary. If one saw clearly and saw objectively, trust became irrelevant. Desirable, comforting, but irrelevant. Much, Haval thought, like love.

  Teller wanted them to gather in a tighter group. He made this clear without speaking, which allowed Haval to ignore it.

  “One question, Council member,” Haval said, in a silence that was otherwise composed of held breaths.

  Haerrad replied, “I am to be addressed by servants and common merchants today, it seems.” He did not glance at Finch or Teller; he merely folded his arms, recovering much of the bulk and height he used so effectively.

  Haval was not offended; nor was Andrei.

  “Your question?”

  “With whom were you dining in the Placid Sea?”

  Haerrad’s gaze narrowed. “Three others were present with me. As you no doubt suspect, the topic of discussion was the absent Terafin and the complex question of a regency. Sabienne was there as my aide.”

  And witness, Haval thought, but said nothing.

  “The others were Verdian—” Finch’s inhalation was short and sharp; Haerrad’s smile was broad and ugly. “Yes. Verdian was there as aide to Rymark.”

  “There are witnesses?”

  “I am willing to entertain the words of a common merchant; I am unwilling to be accused—however subtly—of lying.”

  “Consider the lack of trust a badge of honor,” Jarven said, offering a slender smile that even Haval found disturbing. “You are a man of both consequence and power, and the games you play are not trivialities, but a way of life. At no point in any crisis do you ever fully surrender them—even, I am certain, now.”