Battle: The House War: Book Five

by Michelle West

  She stopped again, not because she recognized what she approached; she didn’t. She wasn’t certain anyone could. It was roughly the height of the rest of the reliefs, and it had limbs, one of which was a normal leg. It had feathers, which implied wings, and a face—of a type. Scales, leather, short fur, hair, combined in a way that defined chaos.

  “Shadow, do you know what this is?”

  Shadow growled. “It is nothing,” he said, batting it with his right forepaw before stalking ahead. “It is nothing and it smells bad.” Jewel followed in his slightly noisy wake, glancing once over her shoulder at the creature he’d dismissed. Shadow nudged her. She almost fell over, righting herself in silence because the words she wanted to say were so far beneath the dignity of her position as Terafin, she might just as well slit her own wrists as speak.

  Shadow came to a stop.

  Jewel looked into the hooded face of a person she had never seen before, but knew instantly. Her features were curiously muted, almost nondescript; she wore loose, flowing robes, folds carved in stone that completely obscured her feet. Her hands were raised and cupped over her heart’s center, her head bent in their direction; if she had hair at all it was completely obscured by the fall of her hood.

  Her hands were empty.

  Jewel took an involuntary step back; if Avandar had not smoothly done the same, they would have collided.

  Jewel.

  She didn’t—couldn’t answer him. She was watching the statue, in relief, a prayer to Kalliaris on her lips. It didn’t help. The statue raised its head, brought its hands to its chest, and took a step forward, separating, in that motion, from the wall that still contained everything else.

  “Terafin,” it said, which was worse.

  “Oracle,” Jewel replied, above the sharp cutting chill of winter wind.

  * * *

  The semblance of stone never left the Oracle’s visage; nor did her hands, exposed and empty, suddenly become flesh and blood. Yet robes of gray did move at the behest of the chill wind, and where folds of stone cloth rubbed against each other, they produced the sound of chisel against hard rock. Jewel stood her ground as the Oracle approached. She was no longer certain that what she saw could be seen by any of the other observers.

  The Oracle lifted her chin. “Your Majesties,” she said. “Exalted.”

  Jewel turned then. The Kings stood behind Duvari and three of their attendants; they were rigid. Duvari was not. If the appearance of a speaking, moving stone sculpture was unexpected, his expression betrayed no surprise. What it did betray was business, calculation of risk. He spoke; his words didn’t carry to Jewel’s ears, although she saw the movement of his lips.

  “No,” King Reymalyn replied. “Your objections are noted, but we will remain.”

  King Cormalyn added, “Your recommendation is also noted, Lord of the Compact, but we have our reasons for limiting access to these rooms. Sigurne Mellifas is present, as is Member APhaniel; we will place our safety in their hands should protection of an arcane nature be required. As to the rest, we are not without defense here, in the lee of winter.” He smiled. It was the sharpest edge of a smile Jewel had ever seen on the face of either King. As he turned the whole of his attention to this unexpected visitor, the smile dulled. “You are the first of the firstborn.”

  “Am I?”

  “I have heard it said.”

  Rock folded as she inclined her head. “I beg your indulgence and your forgiveness for my intrusion; I offer no disrespect, and no threat; indeed, I offer what the future offers: scant hope, and slender. But if you are here in this room, and The Terafin is by your side, you are coming to understand just how slender that hope will be, ere the end.”

  “You have come to deliver a message to The Terafin?”

  “Not a message, no.” She offered Jewel one hand: her left. Her right fell to her side. “A path. You do not yet understand what she presages, but you will. You fear her.” It was not an accusation made to Kings, and indeed, the Oracle posed her question to the Exalted instead, as if she understood that Kings must be considered above something so petty as fear.

  The Son of Cormaris replied. “Should we not? The changes wrought in this room—this and one other—were made, in a moment, at her command, although they are contained within Avantari, the palace of Kings, and she stood in the grounds of the Terafin manse, several miles away.”

  The Oracle nodded. “I will not argue with the facts you have presented; they are demonstrably true. But if I understand where I now stand—and when—I will say this: you have the choice of ills, and there is true safety in neither. You may judge The Terafin by her intent, but intent is not proof against great acts of evil.”

  He nodded. The daughter of the Mother said, “And you foresee great acts of evil?”

  “I foresee devastation and destruction,” was the serene reply. “The Terafin has a bold heart, but it is not a fortress, and things might move her to action that would be better ignored. Nor will she see the cost of action—or inaction—in her ignorance.”

  “You do not counsel us to destroy her.”

  Jewel, silent, fell still at the word destroy. She understood that this interview would decide her future; she had understood it when she had dressed and prepared for the audience. But it had never been stated so baldly, and she was surprised at what she now felt: anger. She mastered it, aware as she did that she had not come here to lie down and die at the command of Kings, should that be their desired outcome.

  She had come here to convince those Kings that she was less of a threat than a walking god; that she served the interests of the Empire, and she would defend it more capably than the Kings’ armies.

  And your proof?

  She had no proof, of course. In this room, with its living, talking statue, there was evidence that her reach was far, far too long, and worse, far too wild. Nothing here was of use to the Kings in their governance of, and defense of, their Empire. The chill wind, in fact, implied the opposite: it was dangerous. It was deadly.

  Carver and Ellerson had been swallowed by the wind. Their voices could not be heard above its howl. Instead of walking those hidden, wild paths to find them, she was here. And the only thing that kept her here, the only thing, was the knowledge that, were it not for Jewel Markess ATerafin, were it not for her, those doors would never have opened, and those paths would never have swallowed two of her own. She couldn’t even be certain they were alive. It was cold—cold enough, with long exposure and no shelter, that survival wasn’t guaranteed. If the cold couldn’t kill, lack of food and water would.

  But if she couldn’t take control of a power she only barely understood, more doors would open, and more people—people with no connection to these ancient and remote magics—would open doors to closets, sheds, rooms, and disappear simply by entering them.

  If she didn’t understand enough to take that control, people might wake in homes that bore no resemblance to the buildings that architects had planned and carpenters and stonemasons had crafted; they might wake beneath purple skies, to the sounds of screeching predators; they might wake to an endless field of snow and the horns of the Wild Hunt.

  She swallowed anger.

  Because if she never had both knowledge and control, the Kings were right. It would be better for their city and their Empire if she simply failed to exist at all. Accepting the truth was as simple as giving the danger faces she knew and loved: Carver. Ellerson. She trusted her own intent—but trust or no, they were gone.

  She became aware that the room had gone silent in that expectant way. Avandar, what did I miss?

  A question or two. I believe they are waiting on your answer.

  What question?

  He was silent.

  Avandar. She glanced at him; he met her gaze and held it without expression. In the end, it was Jewel who looked away. Shadow, however, had had enough. Jewel saw that he had, in silence and unnoticed by her, approached the Oracle, at whom he was now bristling. “We won’t let h
er.”

  Jewel immediately approached the cat and laid a hand rather harder than was necessary on his head. He hissed, and his wings rose in threat.

  “Are you master now?” the Oracle asked softly.

  Shadow sidestepped the question. “You are not her master.”

  “Perhaps not.” The Oracle’s voice was glacial. “But she is mortal; all mortals choose a master, in one way or another. Is that not so, Viandaran?”

  Jewel cleared her throat. “Avandar, don’t answer that question.”

  “He obeys you now, Terafin?”

  “It’s irrelevant. If he doesn’t obey me, he doesn’t attend you.”

  Silence. The Oracle slowly lowered her arm. “You are not yet ready,” she said, her voice once again smooth and implacable. “But, Terafin, if you desire it—”

  “I don’t.”

  The Oracle fell silent. After a much longer pause, she turned to the Kings. “What The Terafin has rejected, I now offer to you: a glimpse of the future I hold in my hands. It is not yet true, but neither is it lie; it is built—as all things are—on the foundations of the present.”

  King Cormalyn said, “I will look.”

  Duvari raised chin, but the Justice-born King, watching the Lord of the Compact, shook his head. “It is a risk we will take. If you do not understand the speaker—”

  “I understand who the . . . speaker claims to be. I am not convinced that there is truth in these claims; of a certainty there is magery.”

  Sigurne Mellifas said, “There is not.”

  His brows rose. “Do you attempt to tell me, Guildmaster, that there is no enchantment upon the stone? Stone that appears to be speaking entirely naturally?”

  “I am telling you there is no discernible enchantment. APhaniel?”

  Meralonne didn’t so much as gesture. “There is none. If you wish my opinion, Guildmaster, I will offer it.”

  “Your Majesties?”

  King Cormalyn inclined his head.

  “She is as she appears; present, but of stone. I have never explored the basements and catacombs of Avantari, and I suggest that you have the Astari do so when time and their duties permit. If I am not mistaken, you will find few rooms like this one.”

  “We will,” King Cormalyn replied, with just the hint of a smile, “find only two, unless further transformations have occurred.”

  “Your point, Majesty. I refer not to the architectural changes, but the stone itself.”

  “The stone was not deemed remarkable; it is simple stone; sandstone or a variant, according to our experts.”

  “Your experts, while laudable—”

  “Two are members of your Order.”

  “Be that as it may,” he replied, in a way which made Sigurne’s lips tighten briefly, “they are entirely in the wrong, in this case. The quarries that would produce this stone have not been mined by men since the sundering; nor can they in safety be mined now, although the time is coming when that option may, once again, be a possibility. But I digress. As I am forbidden my pipe by both The Terafin and the guildmaster, digressions are notably less pleasant. I will therefore come to the point: She is the Oracle in any relevant fashion.”

  “The irrelevant?”

  “If you destroy the sculpture, you will not materially harm the Oracle.”

  “It would not be entirely without cost,” the statue said, her lips curving in a smile not dissimilar to King Cormalyn’s. “And I will therefore look unkindly upon the attempt. Lord of the Compact, I am not your enemy here.”

  “If you can, without warning—and without necessary security precautions—emerge from a section of wall within the heart of the palace, you are not a friend.”

  “Will it offer you comfort if you know that I cannot appear unless The Terafin is present?”

  “Scant,” was his grim reply. “But not none.” He met the statue’s gaze, and Jewel had little doubt that he could win a staring contest with stone: he was Duvari. He was not, however, unleashed at the moment; King Cormayln stepped past him, and Duvari grudgingly allowed this.

  “In times of war,” the King said, with obvious respect, “harsh measures are taken, and those who might otherwise be friends are seen, always, in the least favorable of light.”

  “Caution is necessary,” the Oracle replied, still mildly amused—but by what, Jewel couldn’t discern. “And I will, therefore, take no insult from it, although clearly lack of insult is not the Lord of the Compact’s first responsibility.”

  “He is not a court diplomat, no. If he has not given unacceptable offense, we will accept your offered gift.”

  “I did not say it was a gift. None can tell, before they look, whether the vision itself is bane or boon.”

  “None? If you say this, who saw first and will see last, we will believe it; we will, however, take that risk. It appears,” he added, glancing briefly at Jewel, “that we already entertain one such.”

  “Indeed. I will say now that she will never be all of one thing or all of another, although her intentions are beyond reproach.” She glanced at the cat, and added, “She must come to me in her time, and her time—as you are well aware—grows short.”

  “She will not die here,” Shadow hissed. He was shaking—whether in fear or anger wasn’t clear.

  The Oracle shook her head; folds of her robes scraped against each other, which caused the cat’s fur to rise further. “It is not for herself that she is concerned. Understand what she fears to lose before you attempt to protect her. She will not thank you.”

  “She never thanks us,” Shadow hissed. To Jewel he said, “It is not safe to walk where she walks.”

  “It’s not safe,” Jewel replied, “to walk where I walk.”

  “You have no choice. You are you. But you are not hers.”

  “Shadow, I’m going to throw you out of this room if you don’t stop. I am not going anywhere right now; the Kings are speaking with the Oracle and we are interrupting them.”

  The Mother’s Daughter chuckled. “You are, indeed,” she said to Shadow. “And if I am not mistaken, we are not the only appointment The Terafin has today; we are merely the first. Come.”

  To Jewel’s surprise, he obeyed, his fur slowly settling. The god-born did not appear to trouble him; the firstborn, clearly, did. She glanced at Meralonne, and from there, to Sigurne; they were silent. They did not approach the Oracle; only the Kings did. Even the Exalted remained as they were, observing, their expressions remote.

  The Oracle lifted both of her hands and pressed them into the folds of stone robes, compressing their fall against her chest. This was not disturbing, but what followed was: she pushed her hands slowly and evenly into that chest. Jewel was suddenly grateful that the Oracle wasn’t here in the flesh. Even in stone, it looked painful; the Oracle’s lips were twisted—and etched—in pain. But they were closed; no sound escaped her.

  What she failed to acknowledge, the Kings likewise failed to acknowledge. They waited, until the Oracle’s hands were once again visible; they emerged from stone robes wrapped around something, and the stone itself flowed over the gaping hole before it could be examined. She lowered her arms, and with them, her hands; when she opened her palms, a crystal lay cupped between them. It was not, as she was, of stone. It was clear, and the light it cast was the color of sky when the sun had burned away all cloud.

  The clouds existed in the crystal’s heart, their edges in constant motion. What lay within them, Jewel couldn’t see; nor did she try. She had nightmares and dreams of her own, and she knew they would come to her at need.

  Terafin.

  Will you look? she asked him.

  No. The Oracle offers with one hand, and only one, but what she carries in the other, hidden, is only a danger if one accepts her gifts.

  Jewel stiffened.

  Believe that the Kings will weather it, he said sharply. They carry the weight of the Empire upon their brows; there is no eventuality that they have not considered since the arrival of Allasakar. If she
shows them their great city in ruins, it will confirm their fear, but it will not deter them in their rule. You have sworn to uphold their laws and their rule—can you have done so without fully understanding their measure?

  If they see the end of their Empire because of me?

  I think it likely, he replied, with just a touch of frustration, that they may well see some element of that. Everything that the Kings have said, every concern they have voiced—and some concerns they have not—are concerns you accept as valid. But the future is not fixed; it is not immutable. Even were it, it would be valuable; it allows for contingencies.

  Jewel nodded and exhaled. It came to her as she watched that the first time she had been in the royal audience chambers, she had come to do her utmost to convince the Kings of the existence of a threat to the Empire; she was now here to do the exact opposite. As diplomatic—and necessary—missions went, this one was not going well.

  King Reymalyn stiffened visibly; he did not speak. King Cormalyn said nothing. Neither King blinked; neither moved. They hovered above the crystal as if the whole of their rule was contained within its heart. After what felt like an hour, they moved. They looked first to each other, and then to the Oracle herself.

  “Do you see what we see when we look into the crystal?” King Reymalyn asked.

  She nodded. “It is not the first time I have seen some of these visions; they are subtly changed, no more.”

  “How much of what we have seen will come to pass?”

  “Without intervention? All of it. It is the future that extends from this moment onward.”

  “And The Terafin? Will she become . . . what she was?”

  “Without intervention, yes. I have offered what intervention it is permitted to offer. She will accept it, or reject it.”

  “And is it only your intervention,” Meralonne asked, although he had not been given leave to speak, “that will prevent it, firstborn?”

  There was a long, long pause. The mage turned to the Kings. “Ask her what I have asked,” he told them; it could not be considered a request, although it was just shy of a command in tone.