Oracle: The House War: Book Six (16 page)

“Your point is taken.”

“This is not a tactic that was attempted in 410.”

Every servant in the hall stiffened at the date, even those too young to remember it clearly.

“Andrei,” Hectore said quietly.

“I am uncertain,” his servant replied. “But I believe the barrier can be broken.”

“Uncertain?”

“If I break it now, it is likely to draw attention.” He did not add, because it was not necessary, that the attention would be magical in nature—or worse.

“They require speed,” Jarven said. “If they are wise, they will be gone within the hour; they will not leave the hall itself to attend to those who now seek escape. Those in these halls are not their target.” He paused, and then added, “It is my guess that they were to be dealt with by Bertold.”

Hectore nodded. “If they meant to be at all subtle, they might have set fire to the guildhall and merely blocked the exits.”

“Indeed. I do not think subtlety is necessarily their aim.”

Andrei said, quietly, “I ask that you all step back.”

The servants struggled to comply; those in the back were pushing toward an exit they did not realize could not be used.

Jarven folded his arms and watched; Hectore took charge of the servants. He did not raise voice or shout; he found, in situations like this, shouting was ineffective. He did, however, have a deep voice, and it carried.

“You might help,” he told Jarven, without any expectation of aid.

“I am an old man,” Jarven replied, grinning. “To be pitied, rather than obeyed. And I find your servant frightening enough that I feel compelled to watch him work.”

“Now is not the time, Jarven.”

“But it is. You trust him, of course. If he wanted you dead, you would be dead. You would have been dead decades ago—and I can honestly say I would consider that a loss. An advantage as well, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Andrei has always been a puzzle, to me. He is clearly almost preternaturally competent—but I can say that of myself. I can say that of a handful of my peers. I have seen him fight once. He is not an amateur. He does not rely—as most guards do—on size and the obvious presence of weapons to act as deterrent to prevent violence. He is exceptionally observant, and he is fast. He is not, however,
Astari
. He is not trained by the Lord of the Compact; I believe the Lord of the Compact considers Araven a threat in part because of your servant.”

“You will embarrass him.”

“I will do nothing of the sort. He is, in my opinion, skilled enough to serve the
Astari
in any of a number of roles.”

“Ah. You intend to insult him instead of embarrassing him.”

Jarven chuckled. But he did not look away from Andrei; Hectore glanced at his servant and got a very good view of his black-clad back. His shoulders were stretched, his arms raised, his hands splayed—weaponless—against the barrier. There was some indication that he was attempting to exert physical pressure against it, which Hectore would in other circumstances have considered a waste of effort.

He turned back to Jarven, who had not finished.

“He is not a member of the Order of Knowledge. He has never, to the knowledge of the guildmaster, served in any of its scattered institutions, and he has never been formally trained in any of its many halls. He has sworn no oath of allegiance to the laws that govern the use of magic; he is not, and has never been, admitted into the ranks of the magisterial guards—or its sister organization, the Mysterium.

“Yet he is cognizant of many of the underlying principles that guide the work of the mage-born; he is notably sensitive to the detritus of magical effect.”

“He has also never been employed as a chef in any of the great houses, but you will not find a better cook. I fail to see the relevance of any of this.”

“Yes. And as you are not a fool, I assume that failure to be deliberate on your part. It is poor sportsmanship, Patris Araven. Given his sterling attributes and his unusual—and suspect—skill set, you might expect him to be treated with some suspicion.”

“He has not been, to my knowledge. He is a servant.”

“Yes. A servant who is granted entrance into the cathedrals, and granted access to the god-born upon the Isle. Have you never considered this odd?”

Hectore was tight-lipped. The ground was shaking enough that he had to brace himself and bend his knees—which were not notably flexible—in order to maintain his footing.

“I myself have always found it odd,” Jarven added.

“What I find unusual—given the circumstance—is the amount of care you have clearly taken to observe my servant. The Terafin enterprises have obviously not been difficult enough to keep you respectably busy.”

Jarven chuckled. He had not—and would not—take his eyes off Andrei, and that was unfortunate. Andrei was not in a position to hide behind his role, assuming the mantle of invisibility granted to servants by people who were not in the serving class.

Hectore considered knocking the Terafin merchant over, and decided against it; given the speed with which Jarven had avoided the demonic claws that should have ended his life, Hectore reasoned the odds were higher that he himself would end up on the floor. Andrei would then be offended at the harm to Araven’s dignity; he was almost certain to be outraged by Jarven’s frank and open appraisal.

Neither of which were of paramount import at the moment.

Andrei lowered his hands; it was not a gesture that spoke of defeat. It was a deliberate, slow tracing of the length of the barrier. Hectore could not see his expression; he was relieved to note that Jarven could not see it, either. It was the only relief he felt.

“Andrei—”

“Yes, Hectore,” Andrei replied. He turned to Jarven. “I do not know what tricks you have left up your sleeve, but consider readying them now. The magi have not—apparently—arrived.” He added, to Hectore, “You will need to wait; keep the servants here until it is safe to leave.”

Hectore did not ask how he would be able to determine safety. “And Jarven?”

“You are not—you will never be—responsible for Jarven ATerafin. I doubt even The Terafin could be.” Before he had finished speaking the last few syllables he spun on one heel. His left arm shot out—much as the demon’s had done—and he drove it through the barrier. Light blazed in the hall; it was almost blinding.

No, Hectore thought; it
was
blinding. The protective spells activated by the stone in his pocket shielded him from the worst of it. He noted, however, that while the servants cried out in shock, Jarven ATerafin did not; the Terafin director’s eyes were closed.

Had he ever underestimated Jarven? Yes. Once or twice. Jarven, in his turn, had underestimated Hectore of Araven. He thought, in future—in whatever future was left them—neither would be capable of making that mistake again.

And the future? It had turned. Hectore had faced assassins. Not often, but not infrequently. In his early years, when he had traveled with his own caravans, he had charted courses through bandit-heavy territory. He had played his deadly games with other merchant houses; he had played less obviously dangerous games at the tables of bankers.

He had not, until now, faced demons. He had never, until his single dinner with Ararath’s protégée, seen the high wilderness of myth made real. Andrei’s right hand struck the barrier, palm flat, and he spoke three dissonant words that echoed in the back of Hectore’s thoughts long after they could no longer be heard.

Hectore was not a man given to fear; even in the Henden of 410 it was not terror the demons had instilled, but a sense of helpless, building rage. He felt apprehension now, as shadow and darkness pooled around Andrei’s right hand, spreading outward in ripples.

Light met darkness; Andrei staggered forward, using the momentum as he tucked chin and folded the curve of his upper body into a somersault. When he came to his feet, he was on the move—and he was armed.

Jarven followed. Hectore did not try to stop him. He had a fleeting hope that the Terafin merchant might perish at the hands of whatever Andrei expected to face on the building’s exterior, but it was out of his hands. The servants were not.

“Marjorie. Tell the girls to stand by the exterior wall. It is not yet safe to leave. Kevan, do the same with the young men—take the rear and give them instructions. The hall is crowded enough there will be injuries if you cannot contain unnecessary panic.”

Marjorie said something under her breath, and Hectore grinned. “Believe that this is not the way I intended to spend my evening. We were to listen to a long-winded and pretentious discussion about an emergency; we were not meant to be embroiled in a far more deadly one.” His tone was, he knew, more important than his words, and he spoke more loudly than was his general wont; the tone itself carried.

He was aware that there was a very real possibility they might not survive, and he knew that it was uppermost in the minds of people who were not used to taking command—or the responsibility that came with it. It was not a task Hectore himself did with any relish. He did not feel responsible for the men and women undoubtedly trapped within the guildhall proper. He had expected some ugliness, the possibility of injury or even death—but not like this.

“Boy, do not stand in the doorway—” He didn’t finish the sentence.

Fire gouted through that open frame, in shape—and in impact upon the facing wall—a battering ram. One girl screamed; the young man did not. He couldn’t.

Kalliaris
, he thought.
Smile, Lady.
He knelt, briefly, by what was left of the servant’s body; it was largely unrecognizable. He was not certain that he himself would have survived, magical protections notwithstanding; the impact of the magical fire had shattered a large section of the wall.

Around him, the servants fell silent; there were muffled sobs, but no words, no more screams. They understood that they were prey, here, and like rabbits, they hoped stillness and silence would prevent attraction of predatory attention.

It was more than he had hoped for; he was, as they were, silent and watchful. He carried no meaningful weapons; he relied—as he often had—on Andrei. On Andrei, who had entered the back halls bleeding.

He listened; he heard the sound of metal striking metal—or stone; he heard movement; the breaking of branches. He heard the crackle of flame, and he heard a roar that contained syllables almost too guttural to be language. In response, he heard a familiar voice reply, and he shivered: Andrei was laughing. His voice was high and tense, and his reply—his reply was also linguistically impossible—but it was not bestial.

Hectore pushed Marjorie out of the way, breaking his own command: he moved quickly toward the open doorway. He was almost too late.

“
Andrei!
”

Light. There was light. And shadow. And fire. At the heart of it, surrounded by all three, imbued by them, Andrei. It was hard to make out the form of the Araven servant; the heat shed by fire distorted everything.

Ah, lies. He could see the demon. He could see the demon, and the red, red blade in the demon’s hand; the red shield. He could see the shadow that rose from his back like wings, and the ebon line that bisected his forehead like a crown. Gods must have looked like this in the deadly glory of their distant youth.

And man, Hectore thought, must have looked as he did: old, tired, and powerless. He left the hall, stepping onto scorched grass. “Andrei.”

“I would not interfere, were I you,” a familiar voice said.

“You are not, and have never been, me,” Hectore snapped.

“His foe is not—”

“
Andrei!
”

The demon’s sword traced a red arc—two—through the air where seconds before Andrei had stood. He had not rolled, had not thrown himself to the side, had not parried; he had leaped. The sky contained him. Hectore whispered a single word, a name that was already fast becoming too small, too insignificant to contain him.

“What is this?” the demon said, and he turned to look down upon Hectore. Had he been Hectore’s height, he would nonetheless have dwarfed him. He was not; he was larger, wilder; his danger could not be contained by shape.

And yet, it was.

The demon gestured; fire surrounded Hectore in an instant. It did not consume him, although he felt its intense heat. He knew that the stone for which he had paid so much would be useless after this eve; he did not think it would save his life again.

But he smiled through the thin wall of fire as Andrei plummeted groundward, the ruins of his jacket smoking, the daggers in his hands glowing faintly as he plunged them into the demon’s back.

The fires that caged Hectore banked sharply as he slid his hands into his pockets. Jarven was not wrong. The creature itself was too much for Andrei. But the Araven merchant had seen what neither Andrei nor the demon had yet noticed: the distant glimmer of blue light and fire, the lightning that had nothing to do with natural storm.

The magi had arrived.

7th of Morel, 428 A.A.
Order of Knowledge, Averalaan Aramarelas

S
LEEP MADE A SOUND when it shattered. Matteos Corvel rose before his eyes were half open; he was dressed before he noticed the chilly, dark environs of his tower room. The door to that room was ajar, although he hadn’t yet crossed the floor. Even in emergencies, the magi required clothing. Warm clothing.

Stone floor stung the callused soles of his feet; the fire in the grate was embers and ash. Nor did he light it anew. He hadn’t the time; time would come later—or never. The trace of Sigurne’s magic hung about the room like a pall. She was not given to idle fancy or idle worry.

He made his way up the stairs to her room and hesitated at the closed door. Matteos was one of two men given permission to enter at any time of day or night, and in any situation. The wards and spells wrapped around the door—the magic that seeped into stone and wood and rug and glass—included him. Inasmuch as he could be, he was some part of Sigurne Mellifas, the Guildmaster of the Order of Knowledge.

But even so, he understood that there were spaces into which he must tread with care. His fear was not of Sigurne, but for her. She tolerated it, but took neither comfort nor pleasure from its existence. She did not, on most days, deign to notice it.

Today—tonight—was to be one of those days. Matteos opened the door.

 • • • 

The room was dark with night but bright with magic.

Sigurne had laid out three robes. Two, she wore when she acknowledged the possibility of “difficulties” or “misunderstandings.” Thus did she brush off attempts on her life. But the third? The third she had worn perhaps twice. Its presence stilled all need for questions—or their answers.

“Yes,” she said, although she did not turn to look at him. “I have summoned Meralonne.”

“Have you summoned the magi?” The greater part of the active body of First and Second Circle mages were occupied by the explosions that had shattered walls—and lives—in the Merchant Authority. Some were actually ensconced within that building, to the chagrin or outrage of the merchants.

“Gavin has summoned them.”

Matteos did not blanch.

“If I ask it, will you remain here?”

“If I ask it—if I beg it—will you?” Matteos countered. The first time she had asked this of him, it had stung. He had served her for a handful of years by that point; he had been steady, silent, and supportive. She had chosen to take Member APhaniel on a task for the Kings; she had asked Matteos Corvel to remain behind. And it was clear why: Meralonne APhaniel was a
power
. Matteos Corvel was a Second Circle mage, and at that, only barely. He was not proud of the envy—the jealousy—that he had felt at the time, but had made his peace with it. He had been a younger man. Much younger. And much, much more ignorant.

Sigurne exhaled; it was the whole of her answer.

Matteos lifted the third of the robes and held them out for her; she slid shaking arms into its generous sleeves. He whispered the focal words of a small spell; she lifted her hand to his lips and shook her head. In the darkness of room and the brightness of magic, her eyes were luminescent.

She was afraid. “Husband your power,” she told him, in her careworn voice. “We may have need of it.”

That, too, told him much. He did as she asked; the spell was merely a way of avoiding some of the night’s chill; it was not a necessity.

 • • • 

Matteos cursed Meralonne APhaniel, but had the grace—for the first five minutes—to do so silently. The winds at the tower’s height were bitter indeed, and shelter from the worst of their bite had been denied him. He did not mind it for his own sake—although it was close—but for Sigurne’s. In the clouded light of moons, she looked ethereal, ephemeral. He knew she played at age when it suited her, but in the past decade, she played at it when it did not; she was not young. She had not been young for years.

Neither had Matteos, although of the two, he was the younger. He felt the wind as a physical presence.

Gavin Ossus had, as Sigurne said, summoned the magi. There were four: Eryk, Alldrich, Engel, and Olivia. Not one of them approached Matteos in age; nor were they like him in any other way except for the talent to which all present had been born. Where Matteos had chosen Sigurne as his master—and perhaps his responsibility—they had chosen power. They had learned to hone their talent, to use it, in matters of war.

If they had a master within the Order, it was not Sigurne, but Meralonne APhaniel; they tendered her the respect they did because APhaniel did so, and they followed his example.

Tonight, however, that example was suspect. Five minutes. Ten.

Throughout, Sigurne remained silent, face to the wind, eyes upon moons and sky. Matteos did not understand the complexities of her relationship with Meralonne APhaniel. He did not understand Meralonne APhaniel at all. But he knew—as they must all know—that Meralonne had also been Sigurne’s master, Sigurne’s teacher, in her distant youth.

Meralonne who appeared ageless. Meralonne, who
was
.

Matteos had only once asked Sigurne what Meralonne was. She had replied with a single word:
Necessary
. Matteos had never asked her again. Nor had he sought information from the other magi or the other scholars housed beneath the Order’s many roofs. He trusted Sigurne. He trusted Sigurne’s sense of necessity—and also, her sense of discretion. If she was not willing to speak of Meralonne to Matteos, she did not wish the matter to be spoken of at all.

But something had changed in the past year. An edge of uncertainty, something sharp enough to hint at fear, had crept into Sigurne Mellifas. Sigurne was, by nature, both conservative and cautious; she was considered—by the callow and the superficial, in Matteos’ considered opinion—timid. She accepted this designation; she had never, in truth, lived up to it. She did not live up to it now, but some unnamed fear informed her actions and her decisions.

Given the events of the past several months, this was reasonable, and Matteos, had he been any other man, would have accepted it as rational, perhaps even inevitable. Had he been any other man, he would not have been in a position to observe the guildmaster so closely.

He moved when she turned away from Gavin; he was by her side when she levered herself up, to the height of the crenellations. He offered her a hand, but was not surprised when she ignored it; Sigurne did not often accept aid. Nor did he attempt to stop her when she leaped from the crenellations, he had seen it so many times. She moved as if she were half her age, and he knew the expression that gilded her face although at the moment he could not see it.

But he did not breathe again until she had fallen ten feet and the wind itself had caught her in its unseen folds.

 • • • 

Meralonne APhaniel existed without context.

His spill of white hair had not lengthened with the passage of years or decades. The lines around the corners of eyes and lips had not deepened; the skin of his hands had not aged, darkened with sun, or toughened with calluses. Even the armor he wore—and he wore it now, beneath the fall of robes—had not rusted or tarnished.

He was one of a handful of the magi in the Order’s history who could instantly travel between two known destinations and still be on his feet. His power had not diminished with age—at least, not with Matteos’ age. It had, in Matteos’ uneasy estimation, grown. It had grown substantially within the past few months.

Nor was Meralonne the only magi to be so questionably gifted.

Gavin and his cohort had likewise seen a rise in power; they did, however, question it. If they obeyed Sigurne, they were Meralonne’s men—and women; they obeyed the guildmaster because Meralonne APhaniel did. She knew it, of course. She rose in the wind that surrounded the mage like a personal army.

He was gentle, with Sigurne.

He was not likewise gentle with Matteos, who was more or less yanked off his feet. A glimmer of something that might be a smile—or steel—graced the mage’s cold expression. “Matteos.”

Matteos grimaced.

“We must be away.”

Matteos almost asked where they were going, but a flash of incandescent red answered before he could. It cut the sky like a beacon, suggesting sunset in the blink of an eye before it once again faded to night.

He could not see stars in its wake. He could see only Sigurne, because it was to Sigurne that he looked.

 • • • 

The city rushed past in a cold, cold blur. The more subtle illuminations of protective magics flared as the warrior-magi prepared, midair, as unruffled as Sigurne herself by their manner of transport. Matteos, however, took his cues from Sigurne. She did not expend her power—any of it.

Meralonne spoke to her; she replied. Both sets of words were lost to the wind. Neither were necessary; fiery plumes once again cut the sky. At the heart of those flames, winged and shadowed, a demon stood before the Merchants’ guildhall.

A demon. Of course.

 • • • 

Matteos met the ground with just enough time to bend his knees and establish his footing; it was awkward. Gavin and his warriors timed impact with physical movement; they didn’t land on their feet, they rolled to them. Golden light filled their hands—and Matteos suspected their eyes—as they armed themselves.

Only Sigurne settled to her feet as if gently set down.

The wild wind retained only Meralonne, but it was Meralonne the demon noticed; no one else—armed, armored, and ready for combat—was worthy of his notice.

“Illaraphaniel,” the creature said, as he spread his massive wings, unfurling them both at once and forcing the magi back a step. His voice was deep, resonant, a force of nature that the wind could not diminish or carry away; Matteos felt it as a blow. He might have been caught by it; Gavin was.

But Sigurne was not. Having found ground once again beneath her feet, she moved—swiftly, belying her age—toward two men who stood by the side of the guildhall, observing.

“This is not your fight, not yet,” Meralonne said. Matteos, focused on Sigurne and the idiots to whom she rushed, glanced back briefly. There was a third man here—a third man who was not magi. He was armed, but not armored; he wore black clothing, although it was rent and torn. Something about him was familiar, but Matteos could not immediately place it. “Go back to your master. Your time will come, is coming.”

The man stood, arms stiff, for one long beat, and then he turned toward Sigurne. No, Matteos thought; toward the men. And he recognized the stranger, then: Andrei. Servant of Hectore of Araven.

 • • • 

Sigurne did not care for Jarven ATerafin, but admired him. None of that admiration showed. “You dispatched one?” The set of her mouth was a single, thin line; her eyes were narrowed as well.

“In the kitchens. He had taken the form of the chef.”

“When?”

“A quarter of an hour ago, perhaps less. I will, of course, make a full report when the situation allows for it.”

Sigurne nodded and turned her attention to Hectore of Araven. “This is not the place for you, Patris Araven. Take your servant and leave.”

The patris managed a smile. “You do not, I see, offer similar advice to Jarven.”

“I am too old to waste breath.” She turned to Matteos. She exhaled. “They planned well, when they planned this. The servants?”

“There is apparently a magical shield—”

“I am aware of it.”

“The servants could not bypass it. We could, but the gap in the shield drew the demon your magi now fight. The surviving servants shelter in the hall nearest the door, waiting.”

She was not concerned about the demon; her expression made that clear. “I will deal with the barrier. ATerafin, when it is down, lead the servants to safety.”

Jarven nodded, as if she were The Terafin—the only woman with the right to give him commands.

Nor did Sigurne expect anything but obedience. She turned to Matteos. “I need Meralonne in the guildhall.”

Meralonne had engaged the winged demon. Sigurne, proving the truth of the words she had offered Hectore of Araven now called for member Ossus. If Meralonne could not—or would not—hear the guildmaster, Gavin was only human.

“Take your men and engage the demon. I need Meralonne in the guildhall. Now.”

Gavin was aware of the strange, fey compulsion that enveloped Meralonne APhaniel when he engaged the demons in combat. He hesitated—which for a man of Gavin’s temperament was very significant. Sigurne had already turned away.

Matteos said, “Tell him that he dallies with the least significant power; the greater is within the guildhall.”

 • • • 

Sigurne’s first use of magic that evening was to bring the containing barrier down. Matteos’ first use of magic was to erect a similar barrier that was far less ambitious in size or scope: he shielded the guildmaster while she worked. She was not quick—but what she did in ten minutes, most of the magi could not do in an hour.

Jarven ATerafin did as Sigurne had commanded: he took control of the servants who raced from the building, emptying the back halls in their rush to be free of the guildhall. Sigurne glanced at them as they flowed past, to either side. Were it not for Matteos’ barrier, she would have been trampled.

Her expression as she at last gained entry into the guildhall almost implied that death by panicked trampling would be preferable to what she found within. Matteos joined her, crossing the threshold; he staggered as the floor beneath his feet shuddered.

Sigurne exhaled. Her shoulders fell, and her chin; age—true age—settled around and within her. Eyes dark, she turned to Matteos. She had faced demons before; she had certainly faced hostile magic. She had investigated the deaths that occurred in the wake of either. He had never seen this expression on her face.

“Sigurne?”

“It is worse than I feared.”

“The demons—”

“There are three. Two are ahead of us, in the guildhall; one, you have already seen.” Her lined, pale hands seemed as silver as her hair when they curved in brief fists. “I do not know how, but one of them has called the wild earth—and it is waking.”