Oracle: The House War: Book Six (59 page)

The demon struck. Only when he embedded hands into flooring was he slowed, but even the resistance of breaking floor couldn’t hold him in one space for long. There was a pattern to the attacks themselves; he struck and leaped, struck and leaped. He was not in one spot for long enough that Birgide could stab him with the dagger she carried. Ornamental, heavy, jeweled, it was also useless; it could have been sword or club, with just the same effect.

She could not continue this for much longer, and knew it. She could not stop, could not assess the threat with any detached rationality; she could move, and move, and move.

Even so, she was planning as she dodged. A ledger struck her shoulder; it was the only thing, so far, that could. Her arm numbed; she was certain she would be bruised should she survive. Duvari did not join the fray. Nor had she time to look to see where—or if—he had fallen. Every motion flowed from every other motion; the first decision—to leap to the right of the demon’s lunge—dictated every other decision.

She carried the strands of golden light that had briefly trapped her hand. She had noticed, as she rose from the first almost acrobatic leap, that those strands seemed to anchor themselves to whatever she touched; for the most part, that was floor. The office was not small; it was meant to house dozens of men and women. Had the wall been closer, she would have made her way there; it was not.

She therefore used the floor, and only the floor. She moved, where she could, to the right; if she had to backtrack—and she did—she reversed course as soon as it was feasible. An erratic, oblong circle began to emerge. Golden strands of Summer light, anchored at intervals a few yards apart, took root; they were a taut, bright weaving.

They were a large, insubstantial net. The demon failed to notice their existence. Twice, perhaps three times as the length of what could hardly be called a battle grew, he passed through them; his presence did not uproot them—but it did not destroy them either.

Some of the strands became enmeshed in flying debris. The demon’s instinctive sense of her speed was good—too good; he could anticipate where she would land, where she would rise. The objects thrown fell short, regardless. They fell short, caught in webs of golden light, and slowed in their trajectory. Thus chairs, shelves, bookends, struck floor a foot away from their intended target. Glassed doors shattered; shards made the wreck of the floor trickier to navigate. Cut hands would not kill her, and she did cut both hands and leg; none of the cuts were deep enough to slow her down.

Not until she took that last injury across the mound of her left palm.

Birgide’s hands were callused; she was accustomed to the minor injuries expected when working with plants. This cut was deeper, but not by much. But the left hand held the summer light, in its complicated net of strands. Blood pooled slowly in the creases of that palm, and when it touched strands the room shifted.

Light flared, bright, gold—but this light, the demon could see.

And in it, she could see the demon clearly. The whole of his body was ebon; his ribs, the tines that rose defensively—she saw that now—from his shoulders, chitinous and gleaming. But his shadow—his shadow was no longer demonic; it did not reflect the contours of his body or its visible shape.

It was slender, yes, but not extreme, and as the light in the room grew, the shadow solidified until it was almost a thing unto itself, joined to the demon only at the feet. The light intensified; as it did, the strands solidified. So, too, the shadow itself; dark and solid and so similar in shape to a man that she wondered if it were Maures.

Wondered, and yet, knew. It was not. She stepped back as the demon’s musculature tensed; he knelt, his knees immune to shards of glass and splintered wood, his hands uncut. His eyes, as they widened, were gray. Gray passed into silver as those eyes reflected light. “Impossible,” he whispered. “The Summer is gone; it will never return.”

“It is Summer magic,” Duvari said. His voice came from behind and to the left; Birgide did not look away from the demon.

“It is not,” the demon replied. “Are you so impoverished that you cannot
hear
it? The Winter is come to an end; Summer waits.”

Birgide said nothing.

But Duvari said, “if I understand events in your world, you have destroyed the Summer trees; if Winter is at an end, what is left?”

The creature roared. No syllables broke the singular sound: a mixture of triumph and pain. To Birgide’s surprise the roar ended in a strangled, terrible laughter, which was just as raw. “I curse you,” the demon said, in a voice that was almost human. “I curse you to love, Duvari. To love, and to love, and to be torn between the two until one—or the other—destroys you utterly.

“You have never known fear. You have never known pain. Even the pain that
we
can cause is nothing in comparison.” He roared again, and the sound of it—oh, the sound; Birgide’s hands were halfway to her ears just to lessen it. She lowered them, her hands shaking as they fell to rest at her sides.

The demon, tensed, roared a third time. Before the almost animal sound had echoed into silence, he leaped.

Birgide stood her ground. She heard Duvari shout her name, but it came at a great remove, overwhelmed by the sudden rush of sound, of Summer song. There was warmth, in this room. Warmth and the promise of life.

And there was death as well—but this death was not for her. The demon ran through the bright, golden strands, arms extended in the gaps between their placement. He would kill her, if he could.

But he couldn’t. The strings tightened, the net closed. Warmth became heat, and heat gave way to a fire that was at once all the colors flame knew: Blue, orange, gold, white, red. Red. He did not scream.

But his shadow did, before the disintegration of his body swept it away.

‘‘Y
OU WILL EXPLAIN YOURSELF.”

Birgide knelt in the ashes, sifting through them. Nothing of the demon remained; nor did anything of Maures. She nodded, sliding the unused relic back into the well-used satchel before she rose. As she did, she withdrew the scroll case that Haval Arwood had handed her.

“I did not intend,” she said quietly, “for the
Ellariannatte
to bloom and flower here. But I will not lie to you. I hoped.”

Duvari was leaning against one of the standing cabinets, his arms folded, his chin inclined. To Birgide’s surprise, his eyes were closed. “I was once told that it is best to allow the brilliant their eccentricities—and the careful culling and planting of the
Ellariannatte
was yours.” He lifted chin, opened eyes.

His face was bruised. She could not tell if he had sustained any other injuries, and did not make the attempt; what Duvari was unwilling to share was best left unnoticed.

“I have read every report that referenced your progress in the Order of Knowledge,” the Lord of the Compact continued. “Not one indicated any competence in magery.”

“No. I was not talent-born.”

“And yet the demon has been destroyed and you have not.”

Birgide nodded.

“He was destroyed by spell.”

She shook her head. “I have made the quiet study of the mage-born a large part of my life. This was no magery—not as it is understood
by
mages.” She walked carefully across the floor, avoiding glass and splinter; it was not a straight path. Too many cabinets had fallen, too many desks. The Royal Trade Commission had standards; none of the carpentry was poor, and none of the wood soft. Birgide did not envy the man—or woman—who would have to make excuses for this disaster. Given current events, it was likely to drive poor Patris Larkasir mad.

“How did you know what he was?”

She failed to answer immediately. Instead, she extended the hand that carried the scroll case, her expression neutral.

Duvari’s eyes narrowed. They were almost shut. “Where did you get this?” he asked. He did not reach out to take the case. Birgide’s arm was tired. She knew the whole of her body would ache half a day from now. But aching or no, she could not now withdraw.

“In the Terafin manse,” she replied. “I was asked to deliver it to you, today.”

“The dagger you carried for most of the fight came from the same source?”

She nodded.

Duvari took the scroll case. He did not break the seal. He did not even examine it. So: Duvari knew Haval Arwood. Or knew, rather, the seal that Haval had chosen to use. Birgide had not recognized it herself. “Was there a message?”

She thought him angry, although she could not say why; there was no shift in tone, and no change in facial expression; his body did not tense. “Yes.”

“Deliver it. I am expecting a pompous Master Gardener to intrude on my report to the Kings.”

“He feels the attack upon the
Astari
is a feint.”

“Does he? And did he say why?”

“No. He understands my position within the
Astari
. He believes that the attack, when it comes, will center on House Terafin.”

“Terafin was not the only House in which members of the
Astari
were lost.”

This was news to Birgide—and news, at that, that Duvari would not usually share. It did not make her bold; it made her nervous. No doubt that was Duvari’s intent.

“I have been offered the Terafin name.”

Duvari straightened. Without a word, he walked toward the window that faced the Courtyard gardens; he stood, staring out, the scroll loosely clasped in one hand. Birgide could see his reflection returned to her in glass.

“You will take it,” he finally said. It was not a question. It was not, by tone, a command.

“Yes.”

“What else can you see, Birgide? What else can you divine? I have known Maures for half his life; there was no deviation, no unusual behavior, no hint of otherness in him. Yet he was lost. We cannot know how much information he shared, nor with who.” He paused. “The trees are surprising.”

Birgide waited. Five minutes passed, perhaps more. Duvari’s mood was strange. But in the end, he turned to face her. “There are no mages among the
Astari
.”

She nodded.

“But you are not, in your own estimation, a mage. Could you detect the demonic in just this fashion anywhere within
Avantari
?”

“I believe so.”

“Then do so. I will not surrender you to Terafin while I have need of you. But Birgide—you are now a Terafin weapon.”

And Birgide said, “Accept that The Terafin is now the only effective shield the Kings will have, Lord of the Compact. Accept that The Terafin is the Empire’s weapon. She will not depose the Twin Kings. It would never occur to her to try.”

“Will she obey them? Will she obey their orders?”

“I have met The Terafin only once. I cannot say with certainty.”

“And will you obey her orders, or mine?”

“If you do not order me to act against her, if you do not order me to kill, I will obey you in all things.”

But he shook his head. “You are young. You were always young. You believe the words you speak.”

“I believe them because I
mean them
.”

He raised one brow.

“The Terafin,” she said, lowering her voice, “is the heart of the forest. It is because she is here that the
Ellariannatte
grow.”

“But she is not here. Not even the gods know where she now resides.”

She was surprised. “You asked?”

“The Kings did. They are concerned. They believe what you believe. Belief, however, is not my duty. It is not my responsibility. Vigilance is. Come, then. We will travel the halls of
Avantari
before you return to Terafin.”

She nodded.

“I also expect a report.”

Of course he did. He was practical; he did not ask her to sit down and write it immediately.

“If this strange power you have introduced to
Avantari
causes harm, I will kill you myself.”

She nodded again. It was almost a comfort to hear him speak the words aloud.

 • • • 

Duvari left her for half an hour, during which she righted fallen chairs. She did not have the strength to right either desk or cabinet, and at least two of the desks would not stand regardless, having lost legs in the fray. She did, however, collect pieces of glass and splintered wood. The floor was gouged, and the rugs that had covered it, rent; these she left.

She made stacks of the books, or started to; Duvari interrupted her. He returned in formal dress, his skin powdered in such a way that the bruises did not immediately show; they were obvious to Birgide. She doubted they would be obvious to many others; very few made a habit of studying Duvari’s face.

To her surprise—and dismay—he began his inspection of the palace in the Hall of Wise Counsel. She did not immediately realize where he was heading until they were almost upon it. She was not dressed—in any way—to meet the Kings, the Queens, or their sons. Dirt was once again wedged into her nail beds, and her hands were flecked with dried blood. She was discomfited enough that she attempted to point out the severe breach of etiquette.

Duvari was not amused.

Then again, when had he ever been? The various men and women who had undertaken much of her martial training had been prone to harsh words and a grim, almost humiliating humor. Duvari, never. Humiliation came with you and left with you; he spent no words or obvious effort to cause it. Had he caused pain?

Yes. Bruising. One broken arm, one fractured leg, both training accidents. But compared to the life she’d known before, they were nothing. She understood exactly
why
the injuries had occurred. She knew what she had to learn to avoid them. They were consistent.

The height of the ceilings now loomed above her like judgment as she made her way through the standing ranks of Kings’ Swords. The last hall was thick with them; they occupied both walls at intervals of four feet. They did not appear to notice Duvari—but they noticed everyone else; Birgide was certain that even had she been expected, she would have been stopped at multiple checkpoints.

The Kings’ Swords did not interfere with Duvari. The passage through these heavily guarded halls was therefore the briefest it had ever been for Birgide, not that she was a frequent visitor. Duvari was stopped when the doors of the Hall rolled open and his presence was announced. He was required to place his hand upon a golden tome, twin to the one that Birgide herself had touched as a prerequisite for entry into
Avantari
.

Birgide was required to touch it as well, and did, surprised at the hands that carried it: the Guildmaster of the Order of Knowledge.

Sigurne Mellifas smiled. “Birgide,” she said.

“Guildmaster.”

“Yes. Today, yes, I am. I imagine you are surprised to see me.”

Birgide, however, shook her head. “You came for the trees.”

“Yes. They were your doing?”

“No, Guildmaster. They were, in their entirety, The Terafin’s gift.”

The older woman’s gaze sharpened. “You have spoken with The Terafin since her departure?”

“No. But the forest is The Terafin’s, and the forest is now, in some part here. It is here, on the Isle. I believe—although I have yet to visit to confirm my suspicions, it is present in the Common as well.”

“Enough, Guildmaster,” Duvari said. “We will speak of these things with the Kings and the Exalted. I do not wish to waste time in needless repetition.”

Birgide fell silent, as did Sigurne.

 • • • 

The Kings entered the hall from the sculpted wall farthest from the doors. The Exalted entered with them. Although the Kings were dressed in Court finery, they were not dressed to hold audience; the Exalted wore the robes of their office, but had ventured forth with only a single attendant each.

Those attendants—priests, all—set about lighting the incense braziers that masked smell—among other things. The Queens were absent, as were the Princes; the only other people in this vast and silent hall were
Astari
.

The doors at Birgide’s back rolled open; Birgide turned.

Solran Marten, the Bardmaster of Senniel College, stood in the open frame. She met Sigurne as an equal, and placed her hand gently upon the book in the older woman’s arms. “Sigurne,” she said. “I should have expected you. I must apologize for my tardiness. The Guildmaster of the Makers is some half a hall behind me; he had some questions, and I could not easily disentangle myself.”

“Gilafas ADelios will also attend?”

“Yes, if that is acceptable to the Kings and the Exalted; he seemed to feel that he had been invited.”

Given Gilafas’ rank, an invitation was not, strictly speaking, required to open most doors. And given that Gilafas was a maker, disorganization was almost expected.

Duvari looked as if he had swallowed newly broken glass, although he nodded curtly and left the three women to speak, briefly, with the Kings themselves. Duvari was one of the very, very few in the Empire who could approach them so casually.

“The trees?” Solran Marten asked.

“In a manner of speaking. Duvari was not best-pleased to see them in the Courtyard gardens; he offended the Head Gardener present for their planting.”

“If he did not have them clapped in chains and carted off,” Solran said, laughing, “he must have been in a very good mood.”

“I confess, with Duvari, it is difficult to tell,” Sigurne said, offering a reluctant smile to the bardmaster’s generous laughter.

“The trees are impressive, though. They are your doing?”

Sigurne shook her head. “Not, sadly, ours.” She lifted her head as Gilafas ADelios entered the room. A young woman followed closely behind; Sigurne asked them both to lay palm against the book she carried.

Birgide, however, was now unconcerned. None of the men—or women—in this room were possessed. The room itself, however, was unlike the Royal Trade Commission’s offices. Streamers of color decorated every wall, concentrated around the windows; the runner that led from the doors to the dais upon which the thrones were placed was a deep, vivid turquoise—a blend of blue and green.

The wall through which the Kings had entered was a tapestry of tightly stacked colors; she counted eight.

But it was the Kings and the Exalted themselves that were arresting. Telltale signs of magery could be found on their persons in the colors Birgide had come to expect, predominantly orange, which she now classified as protective.

But the light that shone in their eyes lent a golden sheen to their exposed skin that made them strikingly compelling—and terrifying.

“Birgide?”

She nodded. “It has been years since I last set foot in the Hall of Wise Counsel; I am, perhaps, admiring overmuch, given the circumstances.”

“It’s a little empty for my tastes,” Solran said. She offered Gilafas ADelios her arm. “The Kings are waiting, Guildmaster.”

The Guildmaster of the Makers nodded. “You see the sculptured facade,” he said to Birgide.

“Yes. It was almost certainly maker-made.”

“If an Artisan can be considered a maker, then yes. Yes, it was.” The young woman at his side stepped back, allowing Solran to guide Gilafas. The Guildmaster was neither as old nor as frail as Sigurne; he was, however, far more easily distracted. The distraction came and went; on some days he was so sharp at his business the overconfident did themselves major injuries; on others, he could barely stay on topic for a sentence, which caused frustration or rage, depending upon the person.

Given the compressed lips of the young woman who had escorted him, Birgide guessed that today was one of the latter.

The Exalted never seemed put out by Gilafas. Today was no exception. He was greeted warmly, almost as if he were kin and not the guildmaster of the most moneyed guild in the Empire; a chair was called for, and Gilafas took it without blinking.

No like chair had been summoned for either the bardmaster or the Guildmaster of the Order of Knowledge—nor would it be. Both women approached the seated Exalted and offered perfect obeisances; Sigurne’s was shorter, but no one expected a woman her age to hold an exacting social bow for too long.