Finch did not have that chimera.
Jewel did not have Finch’s experience in the Merchant Authority—and, in fact, had come to rely on it in her own work. She could not, from the endless winter of the hidden world, give Finch orders or—or check her work, a thought which caused a grimace. In truth, it was not something she had worried about, on the road; she had worried about the Oracle. About Carver.
Carver.
She wanted to tell Finch, then. But it was not the time for either confession or imperfect absolution—if absolution would be offered. Jester was here, after all. She wanted a vision of Finch in the future that showed her safe and in control of the vast Terafin interests—but of course, there was nothing. Just Finch as she was now, waiting, clear-eyed and quietly resolute. She was the only person who had crossed the invisible barrier that separated the two groups to stand by Jewel’s side.
Trust was hard. No, trusting Finch was easy. Trusting that people who would try—time and again—to have her killed would fail was not. But she had left Terafin in Finch’s hands, and she understood that, imperfect as they both were, there were no better hands to leave it in.
Finch could not, however, rule these lands. She could not intrigue, collude with, or demand. If the forest was aware of Finch at all—and it was—it was aware of her because of Jewel’s attachment and regard.
There was only one other person in this clearing that demanded the attention of the trees and the earth in which their roots were planted, and Jewel looked across the clearing toward her. Birgide Viranyi. Birgide. Astari, for gods’ sake.
Yet she had granted this woman permission to enter her forest. Why? She struggled to remember.
• • •
Birgide felt the breeze in the clearing shift. Winter, she had seen in a brief glimpse as The Terafin had returned to her lands; she could now feel it. It stung her exposed cheeks as she faced the Terafin. Without intent, she had fallen into the position she adopted when standing in front of Duvari. Duvari had raised inscrutability—and the discomfort it caused those who had the full force of his attention—to a fine, fine art.
She—like any Astari—therefore did her best to adhere to the governing—and unwritten—rules handed down by the Lord of the Compact. She chose a course of action, after examining all known facts; she threw conscious effort into intelligent guesswork, and, in the end, having completed her assignment and been called upon to justify those choices, she prayed.
This felt very like those debriefings, except she had no report to make; she had no decisions to justify. She had not deliberately chosen to bring the dining party to the forest. She had not deliberately chosen to enter The Terafin’s personal chambers—rooms absolutely forbidden to a lowly gardener in the Household Staff without express invitation.
She had offered her service to the forest itself—but even that, she could not justify, not in words. Words had been superfluous. Perhaps, she thought, understanding was superfluous as well. What she had wanted in that moment was to guard and protect these lands. She had barely given a thought to the woman who ruled them.
She had even accepted the House Name—and she thought, facing Jewel Markess ATerafin, that that had been a tactical error. She could not imagine this woman offering Birgide, whom she knew to be a member of the Astari, the protection of Terafin. The name, she could forgo, in the end.
The forest?
Never. Never, while she lived. Knowing this, she straightened the line of her shoulders, tightened the line of her jaw, lifted her chin.
Will I survive, if she doesn’t want me? she asked.
And the breeze answered. No.
• • •
Birgide was not den-kin. She was of an age with the den, but she had not come through the streets of the twenty-fifth holding; had not broken laws to survive starvation in the long, harsh passage. Yet the faded scars she bore—those visible, Jewel had no doubt that many similar were harbored beneath her clothing—implied a life that was just as difficult.
More so. Birgide did not seem to have friends or family in this city. Or any city.
You are so certain?
No one who has actual friends would ever serve Duvari.
Avandar was amused. Very little in the past few days had amused him.
She’s part of this forest.
You are certain? It was a question—but also, a test. Avandar had his own opinions, and he didn’t choose to share them.
She was. She had given Birgide permission to enter—and study—the Ellariannatte, and anything else that grew in the hidden woods. And why? Partly to spite Duvari, as he so clearly disliked the idea. She accepted it. And accepted, as well, that important events grew out of the pettiest of motivations if one were not cautious.
But if spite had been some part of her decision, it had not been the whole of it, and she accepted that, too. She did not know Birgide. She had made her decision on an acquaintance of perhaps an hour. Birgide had been quiet and reserved. Her determination to do what Duvari did not want had given Jewel information about Duvari, as well. Until that moment, it would not have occurred to her that any of the Astari would work against his clearly stated preferences for their own benefit.
And Birgide had wanted to be among those trees. She wanted to be beneath their boughs. She was a botanist, a member of the Order of Knowledge. But it was not to write papers over which she could argue with other members of that Order that she had desired Jewel’s permission. Jewel was almost certain that Birgide would never write those papers—and that those papers would be in high demand, even among the magi.
You don’t serve me.
To Jewel’s surprise, Birgide said, “That was not my intent. But the forest is yours, and it serves you.”
And you?
Birgide clasped hands behind her back. “I have done things in my service to other masters that you would never countenance. I will not say that I was only following orders, and if that is what you think, you do not understand the Astari.” She spoke the word aloud as if testing its weight on her tongue. “I have read every file in the archives that references House Terafin. One or two were of particular interest to me. I know what you are.
“I know where you came from. I know who your friends are. I know that you consider them kin. They’ve always been your weakness. I believe Councillor Haerrad once attempted to use them against you. Teller, wasn’t it?”
Jewel said nothing.
“But I understand that they have also been your strength.” Birgide smiled. It was a slight, almost bitter expression, but it was turned inward. “I never had the strength to take that risk. I learned to stand alone. I learned not to resent it. All of my strength—what little there was of it—came in moments of isolation. And all of my peace, as well.
“It was in places like this that I hid.”
“You came to my forest—to hide?”
Birgide’s smile deepened, its texture changing, as she surveyed the stand of trees and everything they enclosed; the irony was lost on neither woman. “I came,” she said, “because it felt like the essence of every forest in which I have ever sheltered. I came because here, the Ellariannatte grow. I offered—in whatever way such offers are entertained—to lay down my life in husbandry of what grows here.” She lifted her hand.
Jewel could see the red, raw, angry scar that occupied almost the whole of her palm; it was a small wonder that she could still use that hand.
“I do not know what test was required of you,” Birgide continued.
“The test—my test—hasn’t come yet.” Jewel spoke before considering the words with any deliberation, but understood the moment she spoke them that they were true. So, too, was the certainty that the sacrifice demanded of her had yet to be determined; she was certain it existed.
Certain that, in the end, Birgide’s scar would look like comfort.
“Do you u
nderstand how the power of this forest works?”
“No.” That was a lie. “. . . Not in a way that I can explain.” That, though, was true. Birgide was, and would always be, cautious.
“What have your archives taught you, about me?”
Birgide was silent.
“About Terafin?”
“They are reports. They give a sketch, a glimpse; they give fact as if truth could be compressed into simple, declarative statements. I have learned more about Terafin—and its ruler—working on your Household Staff than I could from reports, even Duvari’s. Working with your den has given me insight into what we might expect from you, and even why. It is not . . . what the forest understands. It is not what the forest knows. The forest is not you, Terafin. Nor,” she added, “is it me.”
And what the wilderness would—or could—do in Jewel’s absence had been, and would be, tested. She glanced at the Warden of Dream and Nightmare, shimmering in his state of beautiful, deadly half-existence.
The forest responded to her, and her will, when she walked beneath its boughs. It had since the moment she had planted the three leaves she had taken from the forest surrounding the fortress of the Winter King. It had responded to her visceral fear for the fate of the dreamers enmeshed in the scheme of the Warden of Dreams, gathering them and entertaining them while they waited to wake. But she had been resident in the manse at that time.
She would not be resident in the foreseeable future.
She glanced, again, at the Warden of Dream and Nightmare.
The forest knew, of course. It understood her fear. It had gathered her den—and one loathsome visitor—and brought them to the seat of ancient power, as if it had known that Jewel would return. And it had brought Birgide, its chosen defender, as if it also knew that she could not remain.
And of course, she thought, as she caught movement in the distance, beyond Birgide’s straight back, they came.
• • •
A man. A woman. Tall, slender, supple in the way of young trees, with eyes that were all of a color that white had never touched. They looked, to Jewel, like the essence of the forest, if that forest had decided, for a small span, to take mortal form. And even then, no eyes could mistake them for humans.
The gold of their skin was paler than it had been the first time she had encountered them; the blue of their eyes was deeper—not noon sky, but one that was heading into—or out of—evening. They were not singing now, or laughing; they did not dance. Nothing about them implied festivity or joy.
She was surprised at how the absence stung.
They bowed—to Jewel; she had the whole of their attention.
“Lord of the Green,” the man said, although the woman—if gender was even relevant to trees—rose first.
Silence. Jewel glanced beyond them to the forest she had unwittingly planted in what seemed a different life. “What have you done?”
“We understand, Lord, that you cannot walk these lands; we understand why. The winter, slight and trembling though it is, speaks the truth of your path to us. But we knew, when you left, that you would return. We are not like you; even should we desire to do so, we cannot easily leave the places in which our roots grow deep. We can sense disturbances; in some cases, we can act against them—but we do not understand the whole of your will, and we cannot, therefore, stand as guardians to it.
“You have given leave to many, many mortals to enter the heart of your domain; we have seen this and marked it. We do not understand the care you take to preserve the lives of those you do not know or did not choose to bless—but we have not taken lives in pursuit of your lands. Those who have not been given that permission, we turn away; they cannot find true paths on which to walk.
“But we are aware of the Warden of Dreams. We are not as you are. We wake for long seasons, and sleep for longer. It has been winter for many, many years. Had you not walked these lands, none of us would be awake. But most, Terafin, still sleep. When we sleep, we are not without power and not without defense.” She fell silent.
Her companion, eyes unblinking blue, took up the thread of her explanation. “You cannot leave yourself here when you travel.” It was said with the faintest hint of curiosity and surprise.
Jewel didn’t ask if others before her could—or had. Instead, she inclined her head. Her hands were loose fists—and that took effort. She understood that were she to remain here, there would be no Warden of Dreams, and no demonic assassins aimed at the only family she had. There would be assassins, of course. She couldn’t prevent that. But they were few and far between.
She couldn’t move the occupants of the West Wing into her personal chambers. She couldn’t ask them to pitch tents in the forest behind the manse. Even if she could, she knew that Finch would not budge. She would apologize; she would fidget; she would confess her fears and terrors. But they would not move her.
And if she ordered it?
“Obedience,” the man said, “is not a trait you have ever highly prized. You do not,” he added, glancing pointedly at the cats, “select for it or demand it.” He glanced at his companion, and then said, “Love is one of those traits. But mortal love is not the love of the gods or the ancient; it is small and fierce and fickle. We do not understand the things you value. We can look at your people, and we can understand the who, but never the why. And yet we also understand that their loss, their deaths, will diminish you. An ax taken to your trees would cause less harm, unless it were wielded by Cartanis in a fury.” He turned, at last, to Birgide Viranyi. “We could hear her when she walked the path. She asked for permission to do so, and you granted it. She has not seen the whole of your lands—but she has seen all that you have seen.
“We hear her voice when she speaks. We hear it when she hums; she will not break the silence with song. We would sing with her,” he added, “but cannot, not yet. She bears the mark of war on her palm.”
Jewel frowned.
“The tree of fire,” was the gentle explanation. “It came to you at the hands of your enemies; it was meant to kill you. You chose to plant it. You have used it as shield and sword, both. She is not as you are. We understand that. But when she is here, she is here. She has killed. She will kill again in the future, if death is necessary. We have given her the gifts she can contain.” When Jewel failed to respond, he said, “You are not here. You cannot be here. You have left your kin in command of your people and their home; we thought to correct an oversight.”
“You made her warden to correct an oversight?” Shadow was literally spitting in outrage. He made clear just how very stupid he thought the trees were; Jewel thought his surprise genuine. The outrage certainly was.
“It was only thus,” the woman replied, “that she could hear us and call us, however imperfectly. She is mortal, Eldest.”
“She is Warden!”
The woman said, ignoring Shadow’s outburst far more effectively than her companion, “We chose as you would choose.”
Jewel would not have chosen Birgide. She was not certain she would have chosen anyone. “What do you mean?”
“You have your kin, and they are the kin of your choice; you know they will never harm you. Ah, I am clumsy. You know they will never attempt to harm you. They will defend what you have built; they will value it, as you value it.”
“And you—”
The woman shook her head. “We are singular and plural; we are tree and forest. What you have built, we could not build; the need for it is beyond us. We attempted to choose a guardian as we perceive you have chosen them—by experience and instinct and observation. She values us. She is not of us, nor will she ever be—but it would grieve her to lose us or see us harmed or diminished. And yet, should the need arise, she would do so.
“We do not understand your love. But it has informed your choices of guardians—your Chosen, your den. And if we must league with mortals, if we must m
ake ourselves vulnerable to their whim and dictate, we thought to choose—for ourselves—as you have chosen for yourself. Our choice may be imperfect; we do not understand mortality well, and our understanding is tied to yours. Have we displeased you? Have we failed you?”
Shadow continued with his hissing, which featured his characteristic certainty that everything alive in the world was stupid.
“You are not pleased with our choice?” the woman asked.
Jewel exhaled. Had she been holding her breath? She was no longer certain. “This place,” she said, moving one arm in a wide arc, “was mine. It wasn’t real to me the way the Terafin manse is, and was. It was like a—like a dream. A dream of power. A way of standing against the demons and the Wild Hunt and the firstborn. It was both unknown and safe.
“It almost killed me,” she continued. “If it’s part of me, there’s part of me that wants me dead. Fair enough. Dangerous or no, it’s mine in a way that even my kin can’t be.” She lowered her chin. “But there’s a reason my kin can’t be mine in that way. Nothing living can. Not even the forest.
“There is nothing wrong with the choice that you made. You made it for yourself, and you made it the way I would have, had I been you. Shadow, complain quietly. I can’t hear myself think.”
“You don’t think!”
“And maybe I need that reminder. You are not like us. You will never be like us. But you’re not objects or weapons that can simply be lifted and pointed or swung. I gave Birgide Viranyi permission to enter my forest because she wanted it so badly—and not in the bad way. She doesn’t look like a person who smiles a lot; she doesn’t look like a person who’s known much in the way of joy. I blame her boss,” she added, for Birgide’s sake. “And I thought I could both spite him and give her some small glimpse at the wonder—of you.”
Oracle: The House War: Book Six Page 83
