Oracle: The House War: Book Six (91 page)

This command, however, did.

She opened her mouth and failed to form words the first two times she tried. She started to drop to one knee—into flame that did not burn, but could, if it were given The Terafin’s permission.

The Terafin’s, Birgide thought. Not Birgide’s. But Birgide did not think she could ever be moved to give that permission in this place. The loss of branches—not even whole trees—had unnerved her; thus might a mother feel who watched her child burn.

Duvari would be profoundly disappointed in her; had he not chosen her, in the end, because she lacked any belief in basic human decency? Had he not trained her because, in spite of that lack, she had no great ambition to be anything other than invisible?

She had come to the forest, as a child. It had been her refuge, her dreaming space, her single dependable retreat. It had not been, could never be, static; trees grew, plants died, seeds fell; rain turned earth to mud and dry spells turned it almost to stone.

But this forest, she understood, was the forest of her heart, the forest that she had believed in when life itself had grown too violent and too unpredictable. Here, there were trees of silver, of gold, of diamond. Here, the Kings’ trees grew. She glanced, once, at the canopy that prevented the flight of the firstborn before her eyes contemplated the flames into which she’d knelt.

She had never spoken with the forest the way she spoke with Jester or Haval or Duvari; she had never felt a need to hide behind words and facial expressions and carefully chosen silences. What she had taken from the forest, she had taken not to sell, but to expand the reach of the forest itself: she saw that now, clearly.

Her forest stretched across the Isle to
Avantari.
It stretched across the waters of the bay to the Common. She could see the pathways open as the realization grew in her; she could see how to walk to either place. But there were more, although the
Ellariannatte
did not grow in any but three locations. The path itself was part of this forest, part of these lands.

She found her voice on the third attempt. “Terafin, the forest is not mine.”

“No.”

“It is not, therefore, my voice which must wake it.”

Jewel shook her head. “It is exactly your voice. When the Kings’ armies went to the Dominion, did the Kings ride at their head?”

They had not; both women knew it.

“They were in the command of the Berrilya, the Kalakar, and—and the Eagle.”

“Commander Allen.”

“Yes. In a very real sense, those units belonged to their commanders. Their commanders did not give orders to every common sentrus, either. There is always a chain of command. You are my Eagle,” she said.

Birgide lifted her face and glanced at Finch—the only person present who had crossed the subtle line that divided The Terafin and her traveling companions from those who had remained in the House.

“Teller is right-kin,” Jewel replied—although Birgide had not spoken. “And Finch will guide Terafin in my absence. That
is
what the meeting was meant to discuss?”

Finch was silent for one long beat. She did not speak. Birgide thought her incapable of speech; no one else had moved. But The Terafin’s question brought her into the flow of discussion and movement. She lifted her hands. The Terafin lifted hers as well, but instead of gesturing, reached out; she caught Finch’s hands in her own.

But she didn’t speak. Finch did. She said, “No. No.”

And The Terafin said nothing. Birgide had always liked The Terafin, although respect and affection were, in the end, irrelevant. When The Terafin released Finch’s hands, the hands fell, stiff and motionless, to her sides.

“Birgide,” Jewel said again. “Wake the forest.”

B
IRGIDE CALLED THE FOREST. She could not say how—not even as she obeyed The Terafin; nor could she say how after, when she had the time for reflection. What she knew was that everything the forest had ever been to her was present in the words she spoke: all of the longing, all of the hidden joy, all of the privacy.

The trees moved—but they had already done so once. They did not change shape or size; they did not become something other. They were the Kings’ trees, down to the visible roots. They seemed to step
back
, to step away; gaps appeared between their trunks, and through those gaps, the rest of the forest—even the storybook parts—became instantly visible.

The flames that surrounded Birgide banked; the red light in the clearing faded. Light, however, remained: the light cast by the domicis; the light shed by the sword and shield of The Terafin’s immortal servant; the light that streaked, blue and red, across a sky that was still painted with the vibrant, sudden burst of fireworks. Absence of light was a texture, and it surrounded the Warden of Nightmare—or Dream—in a way that haloed him.

Birgide heard the wind. She heard it as a voice, and felt it as a sensation as it spun
Ellariannatte
leaves across the clearing, and tweaked the flight feathers of the wary cats. The gray cat snarled. Birgide froze for a moment at the sound of his voice.

She had, of course, heard the cats before. She was not an intimate of The Terafin’s—but she had no need to be. The cats filled all silences as if silence was a dire enemy in need of obliteration. Those voices had reminded her of children—angry, squalling children; they grated, yes, and they annoyed the Household Staff—but annoyance quelled fear.

This voice did not.

It was the voice of the storm above the harbor. It was the voice of the breaking earth in the South. It was ageless, ancient, an echo of every possible past that Birgide had ever considered—even the darkest moments of her own. The roar contained no words, but none were needed; she froze in place. Had she been one iota less well-trained, she would have ducked behind the nearest tree for cover. Her hands did not fall to her daggers or any other concealed weapons she chose to carry—she knew on a visceral level that no weapons given her would save her.

But she knew, on a less instinctive level, that such weapons were not required. The cats—any of the three—would not kill her without The Terafin’s permission, unless she attempted to assassinate The Terafin first. She knew as well that even if The Terafin commanded otherwise, she would be almost instantly dead should she make the attempt.

They were not like the
Astari
. They were not instantly obedient. If they had rules, they refused to acknowledge their existence—much the way proud, young children would, who felt secure in their parents’ temper. Birgide had not been that child.

Neither had the cats, and it was a terrible mistake to think of them as children; Birgide had recognized the error almost instantly, but had never fully
felt
it as truth until now. She was not, given Duvari, as other men and women; now that she did, the knowledge was indelible in memory. She would never be at ease in their presence again.

As if he could sense the whole of her fear, the great gray cat turned toward her; nothing else appeared to have moved. “We are not as
you
are,” he said. “But you are not as
they
are, now. She
cannot
make you
hers.
She cannot make
any
of them
hers
. If you
ask
, she will
release
you.” His shadow—Shadow’s shadow—grew longer, thicker, taller. It was the only one of the three that did; the other two, white and black, focused on the Warden of Dreams, as if he was the only danger in the clearing.

“Will you
ask?
This forest, this place—it is not for mortals.”

“If it is not for mortals, why did it not choose you?”

The cat’s growl shook the earth beneath her feet. “We do not
serve
.”

That was very much her fear. She was tempted to offer an obeisance suited to Kings and Exalted. She was, however, more afraid to expose her back to this creature and the claws that seemed, for a moment, like long, long knives. She offered him words, instead, and was surprised at the steadiness of her voice. “The Terafin is mortal.”

“She is
Sen
. You are
not
.”

“No House can have two heads. Another Sen will not be found.” It was a guess.

Shadow growled. He was not pleased with the forest. He was not, at the moment, pleased with life. Even The Terafin earned a narrowed side-eye.

The growl deepened, lengthened. The Terafin did not appear to hear it. Nor, Birgide thought, did anyone else in the clearing. Ah, no, that was not true. The branches of the trees overhead trembled faintly, in time with the earth beneath her feet.

And the earth’s trembling grew as the seconds passed. Birgide bent into her knees, in an attempt to remain on her feet; her training made it possible. What she did not completely understand was how everyone else—stiff, silent, watchful—could remain standing with so little effort. It was almost as if they were not here, where she was, although they were mere yards away.

Not even The Terafin moved. No, that was not true; she had turned to look at Birgide. Her eyes were not Birgide’s eyes; they were a dark brown; they carried no hint of fire. And yet, these lands were hers. The woman whose beauty stilled all but breath had said that the trees whispered The Terafin’s name.

And they did. There was affection in the syllables Birgide heard, mingled with awe and anger and fear and possessiveness and hope and something that Birgide herself could not name because she could not understand that part of what she heard.

She was surprised when the roots sprang up around Shadow’s feet. Jewel had commanded the cats to guard Adam. Shadow casually shredded one of the roots, and then another, as if he were swatting flies; they returned. He did not appear to consider them a threat in any way.

“Eldest,” a familiar voice said. “It is unsporting of you to vent your anger on the mortal.” The woman and man who had spoken with The Terafin approached the great, gray cat. He growled at them, Birgide almost forgotten.

Before she could speak, others joined them. Some were younger in appearance, and some had not chosen to assume a semi-human guise; they came as golden stag, golden fox, brown bear; in the distance, she could see that some had chosen no other semblance—the trees themselves seemed to be walking and stretching. The noise of wind through leaves became a different sound as their voices blended and clashed.

The earth beneath Birgide’s feet stilled.

“The eldest,” the woman continued, her eyes bright and quick, her lips turned up in a smile that transformed and brightened her face, “cannot claim land. They cannot be tied to one place for long. Ah, but, of course, they were; perhaps this confuses you.”

Everything about this day would confuse her. Birgide could not imagine a day when understanding of everything that had happened would be hers. If the roots could not contain the gray cat and his ire, the trees, apparently, could. They did so with words and delighted greeting, their voices converging and diverging.

Birgide turned to the Warden. He watched. He attempted to slide, once again, from the forest.

One of the trees turned to him. “Warden of Nightmare,” she said. She was shorter and rounder than the man and the woman who had first spoken, but no less cheery. “It has been a long, long winter—and a cold one. Come; we welcome you.”

“It was not my intent to remain,” he replied, his expression chilly.

“But you must! You will be our guest. You will give us news of word and deed in the realm that only you can safely walk, and we will listen. Be comfortable; you will want for nothing.”

He failed to reply.

“If you desired to leave us, you would offer our lord compensation; you will not. Having made your decision, why be so grim? You will remain with us until the war looms, and you will see it by her side.”

“I have no desire to see such a war. I have seen grander, by far, in the dreaming.”

“But that was not
real
. And even you are enmeshed in reality from time to time. You were not always averse to our company. Come.” She held out a hand in welcome.

She held out a hand in command.

Birgide was not certain what she had expected of such a waking. A small, golden fox wrapped itself around her ankles and looked up with wide, guileless blue eyes.

“No,” another voice said. “She is not our guest. She is our Warden.”

The fox sneezed. “I knew that,” it said, its voice surprisingly dignified. Birgide leaned down and picked the fox up. Its fur felt like new, soft bark—but simultaneously, like the type of fur nestled closest to animal skin.

“I’m Birgide ATerafin,” she told the fox. “You are?”

“Surprised, actually,” the fox replied. “It is good to be awake, but the world smells different.” He lifted his head and narrowed his eyes. “And while I am grateful to be awake, could you not have let
them
sleep?”

“I’m afraid not,” was her apologetic answer, although she couldn’t quite pick out the undesirables to whom the fox referred. “We have a little difficulty, and I need your help.”

“Of course you do. You smell like a mortal. Rumor has it that you
are
one.”

“I am.”

“You’ve not wandered far in these lands. You’re wondering why I’m this shape and size.”

She was, and nodded.

“It will be a mystery to you until you find me. I hope you like mysteries. I will try not to make it deadly.” He sniffed. “The stench of decay is in the air,” he added, and looked up. As he did a small cloud of what appeared, at this distance, to be bees, entered the clearing. “They would wake the dead,” he said, sneezing again. “It is about to get very noisy in here.”

 • • • 

They were not bees. They were chitinous, for one, although this wasn’t clear until they landed, briefly, on Birgide’s shoulders. Their shells, with wings closed, looked like metallic gold. Their voices were high and droning, but it was possible to hear syllables in them, if one listened.

Birgide desired to do exactly that, but saw that the presence of
these
forest spirits—she had no other word for them, but intended to find one in the future—had brought movement and sound back to every other mortal in the clearing.

And the first to speak was the platinum-haired woman Birgide found it difficult to look at. She raised a hand—to Birgide—and crooked a finger. The fox’s head—the largest part of its slender body, swiveled toward her. Birgide knelt to put him down, and he thwacked her nose with his tail. “It will not do,” he told her, as she rose still holding him. “Respect is one thing. Treat all visitors with respect. But subservience is quite another, and it is both unwelcome and unwise.”

The woman laughed. It was not the laughter deemed delicate or feminine in the patrician courts—it was full-throated, full-bodied; her shoulders shook and her hands flew to her cheeks. Her eyes shone. She looked radiant. Had Birgide thought her beautiful before?

“And Shianne,” the fox said, “your manners are also lacking. Can it be that you have been away from the world so long that you have forgotten them?”

Birgide would not have dared—no matter what the fox said about wisdom—to speak thus to her. She could barely bring herself to speak at all. But the fox’s comment seemed to please the stranger greatly.

“Ah, no,” the fox said, before she could reply. “What have you done to yourself?” He stretched his neck; if Shianne was expected to treat Birgide with respect, he was not; he indicated that she should approach the lady, and Birgide did so.

Shianne cupped the furred face between her hands. “I did not think to see you here, of all places. You were almost old when I was young.”

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“And I cannot, of course.” The smile dimmed. “I would walk with you. I would speak. And listen. I have grown better at that, with the passage of time. But I haven’t the time. I am—”

“Mortal, yes. She will not like it.”

“She did not, no. But it is to find her and free her that I have come.”

“You will not find her here. Jewel is not fond of your White Lady.”

Birgide’s arms tightened. The fox frowned up at her. “She is not a fool, Warden. Jewel will treat the White Lady with the respect she is due; fondness is irrelevant. Or do they not teach you that these days? Mortals oft died before true lessons could sink roots. We will keep the Warden of Dreams company for some time. But tell me, what did you think he might offer?”

“I am not—”

“Yes, yes. I understand that we are not your servants—and I think we are glad for it, in the main. But Jewel does not understand all of the laws of being and becoming. She is quick-witted enough to pick some of them up from your words.”

“In truth, I had no plans; I was offended at his easy trespass and his insolence. I do not serve your lord, but she is necessary to me.”

“And the one above?”

Shianne’s face softened. “I was not certain,” she began. “That you could keep the Warden of Dreams.”

“I will endeavor not to feel insulted. We were not fully awake when you arrived. Do you doubt us now?”

She shook her head.

“You must leave us, soon. Will you return?”

“I cannot say. Perhaps if we fail.” But the mention of that possibility dampened the last of the light in her eyes. “And I would while away some time in your company, otherwise. But I must speak with my own kin before I depart, and the boy—”

“A boy.” The fox frowned. He leaped from Birgide’s arms, and although he had not resided there for long, she felt the absence of his warmth keenly.

“Eldest,” the fox said, to the three great cats. Birgide held her breath. The cats, however, sniffed and shuffled a glance between themselves. It was Shadow who spoke; his voice had lost the terrible resonance and power it had contained moments ago.

“Oh,” he said, sniffing air. “It’s
you
.”