Oracle: The House War: Book Six

by Michelle West

  Haerrad was both suspicious and flattered. The former was a given, when dealing with men of political power and cunning; the latter was more difficult to achieve. The controlled anger that had informed his words to Haval evaporated slowly. What was left was more measured.

  Angry men could often be counted on to make mistakes. Haerrad’s anger was different; it sharpened and honed his cunning. Haval had met few of whom he could say this with confidence; it was a rare trait.

  Jarven, however, was among that handful. He was not, in Haval’s estimation, angry—not yet. Against the narrow, predictable anger of a man like Haerrad, Jarven’s fury was the more dangerous.

  “There were witnesses.” He turned to Finch. “Rymark is willing to support The Terafin; he claims to have undertaken no actions against her since her investiture. He is not, however, willing to support a regency if you are to be the regent. With apologies to the right-kin,” he added, “he is unwilling to support your tenure in that position, either. He considers you both too young and too inexperienced.”

  Teller inclined his head gravely. Finch, however, said, “In matters of the economic welfare of the House, I am more qualified than Rymark.”

  Haerrad shrugged. He looked to Jarven. “Regardless, Finch, you are not favored as regent by the House Council.”

  “I was not aware that the possibility had been discussed by the House Council,” Finch replied. “Your vote in these discussions would have carried no weight, regardless; you were meant to die, tonight.” Yes, Haval thought, watching her: she was Jarven’s student.

  Haerrad did not blink. Nor would he; threats to his life—especially those that had come within a hair’s breadth of success—were merely indications that he had been careless. He shrugged, as if it were of little consequence. “As were you.”

  “And neither of us are dead.”

  Haerrad inclined his chin more stiffly than Finch had; it was almost—for Haerrad—a gesture of surrender. “Yes. Your survival—and your calm—is both surprising and impressive.” He glanced at Jarven, who said nothing. “While The Terafin lives, she is Terafin. Given the difficulties she has faced at this early point in her tenure, I expect she will live for decades; what killed her predecessor would not, in my opinion, scratch the leather of her softest boots. Were she any other, I would consider her too weak to rule.

  “But her survival to date is the counterbalance against that opinion, no matter how well-informed or considered it would otherwise be. I will speak with Sabienne, if we escape this place alive. If we do not—” he smiled. “Survival is proof of fitness, Finch. Remember that.”

  Finch said, quietly, “Amarais Handernesse ATerafin was indisputably fit to rule. Her death does not invalidate the decades that preceded it. We will all die, one day. Survival alone says very little about fitness, to me.”

  Haerrad raised a brow. “The mouse has teeth,” he said, to Jarven. Haval found this interesting; he found the entire interaction interesting. Jewel would never forgive Haerrad for his attack on Teller. Finch, he understood, would. He did not think this was due to Jarven’s particular influence; it was due to the underlying differences in the fundamental character of the two women.

  Women, Havel thought dispassionately. Not girls.

  Jarven was pleasantly neutral, his eyes slightly narrow as he regarded one of the most powerful members of the House Council. Haval assessed the likelihood of Haerrad’s future survival to be higher than he had previously anticipated. “She is not, and has never been, a mouse. She has survived my office. Have you known me to ever take a personal interest in mice?”

  “Only when you mimic a cat.”

  “Indeed. Imagine, if you will, what she has learned in the years we have been close associates. She is not my support in the House Council; when I join it, I will be hers.”

  Haerrad said, quietly, “So, that rumor is true?”

  “It is not rumor, but fact. If, as you say, we survive.”

  Birgide said, “Come to me. All of you.” It killed conversation, demanded movement. Not a single person chose to disregard her, not even Haerrad. Pride could make him both condescending and insulting, but he proved, again, that he was not a fool. Torvan and Arrendas complied as well; they were more deliberate in their retreat.

  “I did not trust Rymark,” Haerrad said; he was close enough to Finch to stab her. Finch did not move anything but her head; she lifted it, exposing the underside of her chin. The gown itself was very, very conservative. If Haerrad recognized the cloth, he gave no indication—but Haval doubted that he had.

  “You do not trust me,” Finch replied.

  He smiled. “No more do you trust me.”

  “Not, perhaps, after today. You considered me weak enough to be inconsequential; you sought advantage for yourself in this. You do not seek the regency. Does Rymark?”

  “I consider that question irrelevant as of today. I am, in some ways, a forgiving man. Where I do not trust—and I trust very, very seldom, if at all—I do not feel the sting of betrayal. An attempt to assassinate me is simply another tool in the arsenal of those who seek power; it is not better or worse than extortion—it is simply more direct.

  “I am a direct man. I do not particularly relish killing; it does not, conversely, fill me with regret. But as most men do, I value my own life. Had this been a simple poisoning attempt, I would overlook it. I did not consider that possibility; it would be far too easy to trace.

  “But, of course, if mastery over my own body was not to be mine, the action was less ill-considered.” He smiled. “I am angry,” he told her.

  “As am I. And I confess I’m surprised. Rymark’s offer to serve The Terafin was—I am certain—genuine.”

  Haerrad’s eyes narrowed. “You are not surprised by the events of this evening.”

  “I’ve encountered them before. I have always considered Rymark personally responsible for The Terafin’s death; to know that he was capable of summoning or controlling demons is simple confirmation. But I believed that he had cut all ties with—” she stopped. “And Haerrad? This is too risky for him. I would not be surprised to learn he had little choice in the matter himself.”

  “You think him possessed?”

  “I think him a coward.”

  Haerrad laughed. “And you do not consider yourself one.”

  “Not in the same way, no. There is very little threat you could make against my person that would induce me to betray The Terafin. Rymark’s concern has been—first, foremost, always—his own survival.”

  “We are all concerned with survival.”

  “And the lack of demons under your control is merely a testament to your lack of magical talent?”

  Haerrad’s eyes narrowed.

  Finch lowered her chin. “Forgive my manners.”

  “I am not certain I will,” he replied. “Gratitude covers a multitude of sins—but it is not endless.” He had apparently reached the limits of the manners he did claim to possess, and turned to the Terafin gardener.

  “What danger, exactly, do you expect?”

  Red lightning streaked from the heights above her colored canopy to the ground, sizzling and crackling; it did not land—but only barely. Birgide was pale, silent, stiff; her breath was becoming labored. Haval noted the sweat that beaded her forehead, the tighter clench of the hands that were now by her sides.

  The Ellariannatte above their heads moved, branches coming in toward the center of their loose circle. The dinner party was not standing where the branches now converged; they were positioned farther back, toward the trunks of these ancient trees.

  Haval was not surprised to see the rain of fire fall. He was surprised when Birgide Viranyi cried out, wordless, as that fire consumed leaves and smaller branches.

  And he understood. “You are Warden,” he said quietly. “You feel you are guardian of—protector of—this forest, these lands
.” She did not look down. “But these lands, if I understand anything that has happened, are Jewel’s. They exist in the fashion they exist because she is their Lord.

  “You are not lord,” he continued, when she failed to respond. “I would have guessed that you had some experience with sending men—and women—to their probable deaths. You have certainly faced death yourself. But it is clear to me that the risks you have entertained have not involved the sacrifice of those you value, even when that sacrifice is willing—and necessary.” He turned, now, to Finch and Teller; he was certain that he had Jester’s attention as well, although Jester appeared to be supporting Birgide Viranyi.

  “Be prepared as you can be. I believe the lord of this forest is about to return to it.”

  They both turned to Haval, then—and Jester came out from behind Birgide. They were signing rapidly. Haval held up one hand to stem the flow of this “conversation.” “The forest has moved in a way it has never moved before in Birgide’s experience.” No one asked him how he knew this; Birgide simply nodded.

  “This circle, this redrawing of a small part of the map, did not occur for our protection. I do not believe it occurred for the protection of the forest, either; Meralonne and his opponent are unlikely to pay much attention to the land they destroy in their battle.

  “I believe the forest moves in such a fashion for one person, and one only.” He turned, hands clasped loosely behind his back, toward the center of this strange clearing. “Jarven?”

  “I concur. You really are wasted in your current profession.”

  “I am not. I am a very fine clothier; few possess my skills—as you are well aware. Fashion requires attention and observation; it requires an ability to move and shift one’s designs in subtle—and less subtle ways—to take advantage of current mores and current customs, even as one stretches them. It requires knowledge of those who will wear what is designed and constructed, and that therefore requires knowledge of where they will wear it, and in whose company; it requires knowledge of that company, great and small.”

  “You almost move me to take up the needle myself.”

  “Perhaps. You will never be allowed to do so in my shop.”

  Jarven laughed. “Andrei?”

  Andrei said, quietly, “They are coming. Stay here; do not move to greet them; do not move to interfere—at all. Haval is correct; what the wilderness will do to preserve its lord it will not easily or willingly do to preserve any others—even if their loss would cause more damage to The Terafin than physical injury.”

  • • •

  Adam knew the moment the forest changed, although his eyes were closed. The sense of place, of almost-home, shifted, strengthened, tightened. The struggle to hold it in place vanished—and, like a game of tug-rope when the opponent let go, nearly caused Adam to lose his balance.

  He shifted his focus instantly, holding the desert in his thoughts. Winter desert, winter trees, endless snow, wind that seemed ice made air. This was harder; the winter world into which the Matriarch had stepped was no part of Adam’s heart. He did not know it as he knew desert; nor did he care for it as he had come to care for Terafin.

  He opened his eyes to dark forest floor, and he cursed softly in Torra. If the other world slipped away, he could not—no. Something else was wrong or strange. He was not, now, within the Terafin manse. Isladar had said—and Adam had trusted—that to cross worlds, however briefly, they had to go home.

  This—this was the Matriarch’s forest. This was the world in which the dreamers had gathered for their odd festival, under the benign watch of a man and a woman who had never been human. He exhaled, inhaled, clutched dirt beneath his palms; he heard the Matriarch’s curse—twin to his in chosen words, but more visceral, more felt.

  “Stay,” he told her in urgent Torra. “Keep them close, Matriarch.” It was hard to speak clearly; impossible to speak loudly.

  Into his ear, she said, “We’re—we’re home.”

  “Yes.” He wanted to tell her that home was not where she needed to be; that she had not finished her quest, had not spoken to the mysterious Oracle. But he could not; he needed to hold to winter, and winter was melting beneath his hands. The earth did not. But here, it slumbered, its anger dim, the roots buried—and guarded—in its depths, stronger.

  He needed to hold this path. He needed to build it and see its boundaries clearly, because the Matriarch needed to walk it.

  “Jay!” He looked up at the sound of a blessedly familiar voice. Finch stood not twenty yards from them, beneath the boughs of the great trees. Beside her, hands twisting in den-sign, stood Teller, and beyond them, red hair catching the eye, Jester. But they were not alone; Adam saw Haval Arwood and—and Hectore of Araven.

  “Terafin!” Two of the Chosen were also present; they pushed themselves forward.

  None of this would aid him in the work he now did. He closed his eyes; he could not even lift his hands to sign, or everything would unravel.

  • • •

  Jewel looked up from her desperate perch across Adam’s back. For the first time since he had undertaken the task set for him by Lord Isladar, she lifted her hands from his and rose. She was not surprised to see the Master Bard of Senniel College to her right. Celleriant stood to her left; both were armed. Kallandras’ hair contained splinters and ash; Celleriant’s, nothing.

  She glanced, once, at Kallandras’ hand. The skin around the ring finger was blistered and looked raw; nothing about his carriage or his expression implied that this caused him pain. Had Adam not been so clearly—fearfully—occupied, she would have told him to tend to the bard.

  She was not entirely certain the bard would allow it.

  Not twenty yards from where she had huddled stood her den, or at least three of them. Torvan and Arrendas, swords drawn, moved toward her, and froze when she lifted a hand. Haval, Hectore, and Jarven stood around Birgide Viranyi. And so, she saw, did Haerrad. Haerrad ATerafin. She stiffened, lifting her hands to sign.

  Finch got there first. He’s with us.

  Why?

  Complicated.

  Before she could speak—Haerrad’s presence hindered any frank discussion—Andrei bowed to her, in full view of combat and demons; he held that bow until she realized he would remain in that posture until she bid him rise. She was not dressed for court or council or Avantari; she was dressed for trekking across a winter wasteland. She opened her mouth, but Hectore spoke first.

  “Get up, Andrei. You are embarrassing The Terafin.”

  “He’s not—”

  “He is. You have never been particularly fond of obsequious behavior, even when warranted—and it is not warranted now, of all times.”

  Avandar appeared to Jewel’s left. He glanced around the oddly shaped clearing, his eyes coming to rest on the only other people that occupied it. The shape of his eyes shifted, briefly, when he saw Birgide Viranyi. He altered the patterns of his protections, encompassing the grouped members of House Terafin beneath a barrier similar to the one that now enclosed Jewel and Adam.

  He frowned and looked up; Jewel was terrified, for one long breath, that the three-headed, flying serpent had joined them. But the air contained only two men, and one, she was almost certain, was Meralonne.

  She started to ask. Shadow interrupted her, glaring like certain death at the rounded curve of Adam’s back.

  “Stupid, stupid, stupid boy!”

  “Shadow.” Teller started forward; Finch stopped him. He had always been fond of cats—even the great, messy, winged kind.

  “Yesssss?”

  “Where are your brothers?”

  “Who cares?”

  “I do, or I wouldn’t be asking,” Teller replied, lowering his voice.

  Shadow huffed. “They’re coming. They are slow and stupid. But not as slow and stupid as him.” By which “him,” he clearly meant Adam.


  A sword whistled above Shadow’s tufted ears. He would have been without them—and part of his head—had he not flattened himself briefly against the earth. Nor did he remain in place when the sword’s arc passed him; he moved. He could, however, complain without pause no matter what he was doing. And did.

  The demons that had been attacking Angel had arrived in the forest with them.

  Jewel glanced, once, at Adam’s back; she wanted to run to Finch and Teller. She didn’t. But she looked at Birgide Viranyi, just as Avandar had done. Isladar and Darranatos did not—thank all the gods anywhere, ever—materialize in the clearing as well. She could no longer hear the sounds of their uneven battle. Instead, she could hear Meralonne and his opponent; she could hear Angel and Terrick. The demon that had taken to air had landed, although Jewel wasn’t certain of the precise moment of landing.

  She did not see the Winter King. Nor did she see the other two cats. The loss of neither concerned her. But Snow had Shianne, and Shianne was not yet here.

  Shianne is capable of defending herself, should the need arise. Calliastra is not present, either.

  Jewel was not afraid—in any way—for Calliastra.

  No? Avandar asked. She knew why. Duster had died. Shianne is not mortal the way you are. She could stand among First Circle magi and be reckoned powerful.

  Why are you so certain?

  I observe, Jewel. And if you did, you would see it, as well. She is not, and will never be, as you are.

  But she’s mortal—

  Yes. And all that means, where she is concerned, is that she will bear a child and eventually die. Mortality does not fundamentally alter her thoughts, her dreams, her desires; it does not fundamentally change the core of who and what she is.

  Mortality defines us. Death, loss, fear of death and fear of loss—

  Do you think she does not fear these things? Immortals are not invulnerable. You have seen them perish.