“Haval—you implied that you might actually train me.”
“Yes. I did. Consider this the first of your assignments.”
“This is hardly training.”
“It is, in the end, the only training of value. I would hold your hand if you were a child younger than Vareena. You are not. We are both aware that there are other methods of approach should you feel it necessary.”
Jester had had a long week. He did not see an end to it in the near future. “You believe that Duvari’s Astari have been compromised.”
Haval said nothing. He began to gather bolts of cloth and straps that contained both pins and needles of various sizes. He gathered threads and beads as well; Jester had never been fond of beading. “Do you believe it?”
Did he? Jester began to gather beads that had escaped their containers; there were more than a few. “It depends.”
“On what?”
“On the information you can ferret out.”
“Do you gamble?”
“Yes.”
“Gamble now.”
“Yes.” Before Haval could ask for embellishment, Jester continued. “Yes, I think there’s a very high probability that Duvari’s Astari have been compromised. I don’t know enough about demons to tell you how.”
“And you don’t wish to dwell on what you do know.”
“It’s too much work.”
Haval’s eyes narrowed; Jester thought he was actually annoyed. It was a symptom of the day that this made Jester feel triumphant, but he kept it to himself. Or maybe not: Haval was a sharp man.
“Let me tell what I know,” Jester said. “It’s probably all old news to you if you’ve grilled Jay.”
“I have, of course, spoken with Jewel about her past experiences. I would be pleased to hear what you’ve observed.”
Jester began to talk as he worked. By the time he was halfway done, given Haval’s intent questions, he had mentally rescheduled his plans to spend an evening getting pleasantly drunk with Marrick ATerafin.
Chapter Fourteen
9th of Morel, 428 A.A.
Terafin Manse, Averalaan Aramarelas
BIRGIDE VIRANYI WAS OCCUPIED in the gardens behind the Terafin manse. She had accepted employment with the Terafin Master Gardener, and if he respected her knowledge and ability—and he did—he also considered her his hierarchical inferior. She did not, in any way, attempt to rise above her given station; she accepted it. In no other way would she be given access to the Terafin grounds. She had been in situations in which she was treated with far less respect; inasmuch as she could be, she was content.
Or she had been.
She looked up, and up again, to the boughs of the great trees that made a forest of the estate. She knew—better than almost anyone alive—that the Kings’ trees did not grow in any soil but the soil of the Common. When her expertise in flora was not required by the Astari, she studied clippings, leaves, even the exposed roots of the Kings’ trees. She had thrice been granted royal permission to secure their living branches—at considerable expense to the Order of Knowledge. It was said that there wasn’t a plant that the Viranyi woman could not grow.
She had not expected to like The Terafin, and regretted it. Although Birgide was no longer young enough to believe that all power must be inherently evil, she understood that all power was a weapon; sometimes it was sheathed, sometimes it was not. Weapons could be turned in any direction the wielder chose. At most, one could hope to have influence in the choice of the wielder—but people were changeable. Treacherous, yes—but not all treachery was a product of greed; at times it was a product of love, of fear, of a desire for greatness.
Which was, of course, irrelevant. Birgide bent to pick up a single, white-fringed leaf; it was larger than her hand. She had not seen it fall. Its stem was too strong, too green, for that; she heard no wind in the leaves above.
But this one leaf had fallen nonetheless, and it had fallen at her feet.
Birgide Viranyi had spent a fruitless decade in an attempt to grow the Kings’ trees in any other soil but that of the Common; she had even taken that soil with her in her attempts in the North, the Western Kingdoms, and the Southern Terreans of the Dominion. No amount of attention, of care, no base analysis of the soil or the conditions that surrounded it, had yielded success; the failure had stung her pride.
Over the years, the sting faded. She could not, therefore, explain her continued attempts; she considered herself one of nature’s pragmatists. She considered the odds of success—after a multitude of failures, some public and some private, depending on needed funds—close to zero. And that, of course, was as large a lie as she allowed herself. Lies were meant to face outward, like a mask; no one wise turned lies inward.
What Birgide had failed to do, The Terafin had done in the course of one evening, without conscious thought or deliberation. Where Birgide had cajoled or commanded the aid of both magi and maker-born, The Terafin had relied—in all measured reports—on nothing.
It would have been hard for anyone in Birgide’s position not to envy the woman. Harder for many not to resent her. Perhaps in her youth, Birgide would have done so. But youth had led to this place, this forest that seemed endless, although it was bound on all sides by the properties of those powerful enough to claim a permanent home upon the Isle. The grounds overlooked by the Terafin manse would not have been considered significantly large anywhere but the Isle.
Dimensions did not appear to make a difference. The forest in which these trees were situated was far larger—on the inside—than the grounds marked in the archival maps contained within Avantari. Such maps were not always precise, but no plausible lack of precision could explain away the difference in perceived size.
So, Birgide thought. This was magic.
She was, of course, familiar with magic. She was familiar with its use, although she was not, herself, talent-born; she had spent many of her formative years as a student in the Order of Knowledge. And many more as a member of the Astari. Nothing she had learned in the Order’s many halls had prepared her for this.
But nothing, she thought, would. Sigurne Mellifas feared that this—this inexplicable forest that existed in a space it could not possibly occupy—might become the new norm; that events to the West, beyond the Free Towns, implied that such changes were already occurring. Sigurne argued that The Terafin was not the cause of such transformations—that the events within and around Terafin were simply precursors. Early warnings.
Duvari did not trust Sigurne.
He was, however, inclined to believe that she did not lie. This did not mean she could not be in error. He had made clear—to Devon, to Gregori, to Birgide, and to the two who served in the back halls—that they were to establish reasonable grounds for acceptance of—or rejection of—Sigurne’s report.
Birgide did not feel that Devon was objective enough. Duvari, on the other hand, was so famously narrow in his suspicion that simple objectivity often looked like dissent. She did not confer with Devon ATerafin while she worked in the grounds; nor did she cross paths with Gregori.
She had not, in fact, been informed who the Astari-planted servants on the Household Staff were; nor had she asked. She was relatively certain that neither Devon nor Gregori knew, either. They were not, at the moment, her chief concern.
The forest was. The forest, and now, the single leaf she held in the palm of her hand. She had gathered leaves before, both here and in the Common; this one was different. She could see no reason why it might have fallen; the stem was too new.
Birgide did not believe in fate. Nor did she believe in lucky coincidence; in her experience, coincidence of a fortuitous nature was generally the product of an enormous amount of work, planning, and execution.
None of which explained The Terafin’s forest. None of which explained the shadows cast by the Kings’ trees. Had she somehow cobbled to
gether a dry and academic explanation for either—and she was certain that she could, although it would take an enormous amount of thought and work—she could not likewise create an explanation that would encompass storybook trees of silver, gold, and diamond. She could explain the artifice used to create one of each, although the cost to do so would be staggering, in Birgide’s opinion.
To explain the artifice in creating a small forest of each, no.
Yet even these paled in comparison to the lone tree of fire that burned at the heart of these woods. That tree did not shed leaves. It shed warmth. Birgide had not—yet—been foolish enough to touch the actual branches, although she had poked one or two cautiously with both wood and glass. The wood did not, to her surprise, burn; the glass did not melt.
But she was certain if she was willing to visit indignity upon such a tree, she could cook over its fire, or beneath it.
She had found this tree on her third day of exploration.
And on that day she had surrendered the pragmatic—for a long, hushed, hour—to the wonder and the growing sense of awe she felt.
Birgide had never truly belonged anywhere. Her interests, her focus, and her travel had made it difficult to find or make lifelong friends—but she had not required them, and did not generally note their absence. She was fully capable of fitting in anywhere she chose.
Or she had been.
She was aware, in this forest of silver and gold, standing beneath the burning branches of a tree that defied reason, that she could not fit in here. It was ironic. She had made the study of unusual flora her life’s work; if there was anywhere she should feel at home, it was in a forest.
But not this one.
Something about this forest reminded Birgide of The Terafin.
“The Terafin,” a familiar voice said, “created that tree. I think it’s the only tree here that she created deliberately.”
Birgide turned as Jester ATerafin sauntered toward her. The dark circles beneath his eyes implied an appalling lack of either sleep or self-restraint. “I did not expect to see you here,” was her neutral reply. She was disturbed by his presence; Birgide had not heard even the hint of footfall.
“No?” He shrugged. “I, on the other hand, would have been surprised to find you anywhere else.”
She smiled, acknowledging a hit. Birgide found Jester ATerafin difficult. He professed to be lazy and unambitious—and she agreed with this assessment, to a point. Nothing she had seen in her time in Terafin led her to believe that there were reserves of commitment and dedication that Jester kept carefully hidden. He was not political, and although he was one of Finch ATerafin’s advisers, the quality of his advice was dubious.
She did not consider him a threat. And yet, he was perceptive, in his fashion; he was cautious in a way that implied competence.
“Have you heard the news?” he asked, clasping his hands loosely behind his back as he turned his unfortunately pale face toward the fire.
“I doubt it. I’ve been in the forest.” She lifted the single, fallen leaf. “I am perhaps not attending to the duties for which I’m being paid. Is it news that will amuse or enlighten me in some fashion?”
“You’ve heard about the events at the Merchants’ Guild?”
Not amusement, then. She nodded. “One could not fail to hear of those events unless one were no longer breathing. Have all of the surviving Terafin merchants returned?”
“The right-kin has their reports; the Guildmaster of the Order of Knowledge had them transcribed for us.”
“That’s unusual.”
He grinned. “Guillarne made clear that he was unwilling to describe the events at the guildhall if a transcription of the entire interrogation was not given to him personally.”
That very much fit with what she knew of Guillarne.
“He knew he’d have to answer all of the questions a second—or third or fifth—time, and his time is of value.” The grin faded.
Birgide nodded. “You said that The Terafin created this tree?”
He laughed. “Rumors of demons, magery, and unheard-of slaughter do not engage your interest?”
She grinned “You mentioned the tree to distract me.”
“I did. And I shouldn’t have—but I couldn’t resist.” His smile faded. “I have a question to ask. I have danced around how I might ask it; I have even considered anonymity.”
Interesting. “And you want an answer in return for the information about this tree of fire?”
“No. I don’t know much more than what I’ve already told you—and that’s not worth barter. One of the junior servants was attacked in the manse yesterday.”
She was silent for a beat. Jewel’s closest allies took an interest in the Household Staff; the Household Staff took an interest in them. It was unusual, but not unheard of. News about an attack would therefore reach the den swiftly.
“The attack occurred because the servant—Vareena—is a member of the Astari.”
• • •
Birgide did not waste time dissembling. Jester had made no accusation. He left her nothing to deny. She considered removing him and decided against it; Jester was not a man who showed initiative. If he was here, he was here at the behest of another. Given the absence of The Terafin, Birgide could think of very few who had the ability to send Jester on an errand of this nature. Finch ATerafin, perhaps; she had both the authority and the political power. “Vareena survived?”
“Yes.”
“Is she still in the ranks of the Household Staff?”
“For the moment, yes.”
“What do you want?”
“In exchange for Vareena?”
Birgide shook her head. “Duvari does not barter for careless operatives. If Vareena were to be tortured for information, she would offer very little of value; she would be unlikely to survive the attempt. I would expect you to understand this; it is therefore not to return Vareena that you have come.”
Jester nodded as well. He was, to her surprise, frowning at the leaf in her hand.
“It fell of its own accord,” Birgide said. “I am aware that I require permission to remove anything—at all—from the forest.”
“The Master Gardener has probably given you carte blanche.”
She smiled. “Yes. But there is almost a sentience in this forest, and I do not wish to anger it.”
“You think the trees are sentient?” he asked, astonished.
“You have trees of silver, gold, and diamond, ATerafin. Sentience is somehow a stretch for you?” She lifted a hand to branches of fire. “If these trees had mouths with which to speak, they would speak; I am almost certain of it. Do you wander this forest often?”
“No. I don’t dislike it, but there are no taverns, bards, or amusing people in it. To listen to rumor, sometimes there are demons. And worse. I try to avoid them,” he added.
She glanced at him; his perpetual grin was absent. “You haven’t answered my question.”
“About what I want?”
“At least you remembered it. I am attempting to discern what you want, ATerafin. I do not believe this was entirely your idea.”
“I’m hurt.”
“Not noticeably.” She started to speak, and stopped. This was a conversation it was unwise to have. “When you say demons entered this forest—”
Jester ran his hands through red, red hair. “I’ve only got The Terafin’s explanation—and frankly, I’m not a mage.”
“The Terafin is not notably available to be questioned by people who are.”
“Have you spent any time with actual mages?”
She couldn’t repress a smile. “My work as a botanist does not demand it.”
“She’s spent a fair amount of time with the Order’s guildmaster.”
“I was not aware of that. Before you ask, I am generally unaware of most
information that does not directly impact my duties.”
Jester watched the tree of fire for a long moment; its flames, which consumed nothing, were silent. “We will release Vareena. I don’t believe she will survive, otherwise.” He was silent for another long moment—and Jester was not generally silent. Birgide knew; he had followed her around in her various inspections like a chattering, bored dilettante. Had the majority of his many, many questions not shown a hint of genuine curiosity and an intelligence he seemed to resent, she would have found some way to discourage his company.
But she understood that he was suspicious; it was natural. She accepted the suspicion because she was not here on Duvari’s orders; she was here for almost purely personal reasons. But she had been in Duvari’s service for most of her life—and one did not simply discard the habits of a lifetime, no matter what else one might be doing.
She glanced at the leaf in her hand. The habit, she thought, with some rue, of a lifetime. She had come halfway across the continent—at speed—because of the Ellariannatte. She had come to study this miracle—and in so doing, had discovered others: the silver, the gold, and the diamond. She had discovered the tree of fire. She had discovered three delicate wildflowers that she had never encountered before, in any of her many treks. She had been given permission to take samples, and she had potted several.
None survived an hour outside of this forest. She could not test her theory by taking them to the Common—where they would eventually be trampled by small children, if not malice—because they had not survived that journey. There was much, indeed, that was magical in this forest.
She had walked into story.
As a child, she had daydreamed beneath the boughs of old trees; as an adult, she studied them. She was a pragmatist. How, then, to explain the hush of the awe invoked by places such as this? She had often walked in that hush like a hopeful child; she worked, but when her eyes were caught by unexpected shadows, she turned, caught in the moment by echoes of her childhood. Life had been grim; forests had been her only escape.
Oracle: The House War: Book Six Page 40