“How could I, Member APhaniel? I am not mage-born. I am not a historian; I am not one of the more enterprising of the bards. Even the wise do not understand how she was able to intervene on the first day of The Terafin’s funeral rites; they know only that her intervention was necessary.
“I have seen trees of silver, gold, and diamond. I have seen a tree of fire. I have seen amethyst skies and trees that grow shelving. There is nothing in any of this that can be rationally explained by the logical mind. And yet I do not doubt what I have seen.”
He blew rings of smoke in reply. Birgide did not particularly care for pipe smoke. She was, however, perfectly capable of tolerating it as if it were the most wonderful aroma in the Empire when it came, as it did, from one of the most dangerous men she had ever met.
“Do you understand why you were chosen?”
“No.”
“Because you are not one of her den. You are an outsider.”
Birgide had been an outsider for all of her life. She was used to it. It did not sting. Or so she told herself.
“You came to her through channels that are political—and dangerous. On an instinctive level, she understands the games you play; she accepts the risks you have made an intrinsic part of your life. She did not know you when you were twelve, or fourteen, or even sixteen. She did not know you before she became Terafin.
“She can, therefore, believe in your competence.”
“If Jester ATerafin is any indication of the competence of her friends—”
“He is not,” was the bored, slightly irritated response, “as you are well aware. She is willing to see you take the risks you have chosen to take in her service. She is, on a very fundamental level, reluctant to risk her den. I believe this was made clear to you.”
“You were listening?”
“I do, on occasion.” His smile was sharp. “Understand that they are, at the moment, necessary. If the Kings die—”
Birgide held up a hand.
Meralonne, being magi, ignored it. “—They will be replaced. Their sons are young, but capable. Once or twice in the past, the Queens have served as regents until the princes came of age; it would not even be necessary at the present time. It signifies little. The Kings, in any combination, cannot do what must be done to preserve your city and empire.”
“And The Terafin can.”
“I did not say that. I have doubts—but if there is to be any hope, it lies with her.”
“And she is not here.”
“No,” was his grave reply. “You are. Deal with the difficulties as you see fit, if you accept my assessment—but do so quickly.”
“She is unlikely to know if damage is done to her informal council in her absence.”
“Is she?”
• • •
And so, Birgide planned. She did not discuss these plans with Jester; there was no point. Nor did she discuss them with the vastly more organized and competent Finch. She did not communicate with Duvari through the regular channels open specifically to her; she no longer trusted them.
She was not certain she trusted the Lord of the Compact, and that was a bitter thought. But the logistics of the operation, while largely unknown to Birgide, were known to others. The likelihood that they were the source of the breach was not zero; it was the only thing that offered hope for the future of the Astari.
While Birgide planned, she worked. She tended the mundane grounds at the direction of the Master Gardener; she tended the wilderness when the work that could be easily inspected by any passerby was finished. In both cases, she was silent and solitary. The gardening staff, predictably, viewed her with some suspicion; she had vaulted above them in seniority almost instantly, and that never encouraged collegiality. With time, she would earn a place among these men and women—or perhaps not; she did not have the time to build a collegial base from which to operate.
She was not, however, unfriendly; she was neither arrogant nor condescending, although she could use either to her benefit should the need arise. Had she not accepted Jester’s offer, she might have been unconcerned.
She had, and therefore, she was. Meralonne’s dismissal of the importance of the Kings and their future role sat poorly with her; she did not ascribe his attitude to the magi or the Order of Knowledge. She ascribed it, she thought, as she lifted her head and stretched beneath the boughs of the Ellariannatte, to the wilderness. The thought brought no comfort.
Between her feet was a planter. In it, she had carefully culled a cutting or three, as she had done many times during the past decade. The soil in which those cuttings were now loosely planted was from the forest.
She did not believe that these clippings would fare any better than any other clippings she had taken from the great trees in the Common, but they were both her comfort and her pretext. She intended to go to Avantari. She intended to plant them in the Kings’ gardens; she had, in fact, standing permission to do exactly that, should her long research at last bear fruit.
The standing permission was, of course, meant to be handled with appropriate care; it was not to be abused. There were channels through which she must go; if the Terafin Master Gardener was proprietary and difficult with regards to his own domain, he was one tenth as protective as the Master Gardener responsible for the grounds of Avantari, who would, no doubt, be prickly and almost beside himself at her effrontery.
She would not, however, grovel. What she had been willing to endure for a chance to work beneath the boughs of the Ellariannatte here, she would not be willing to endure from the gardeners of Avantari.
It was inconceivable that Duvari would have no knowledge of her arrival. She was not certain how this would be interpreted, given that she had made no formal request of him. She hoped that he would interpret it correctly, but allowed for the possibility that it was already too late for Duvari.
“I see Jester did not exaggerate.”
“Does everyone who happens to work within the manse learn to walk so silently they offer no warning?” Birgide asked. She did not cease the careful arrangement of cuttings and soil; nor did she immediately rise; her hands were dirty.
“My apologies,” the unexpected visitor said. “I am content to wait while you finish.”
“I assume that you consider the visit itself of some import.”
“I seldom interrupt someone else’s work for trivial reasons, given how little I appreciate such interruptions myself.”
Birgide wiped her hands clean—or as clean as they would be without soap, a brush, and warm water. She then extended her right hand to the older gentleman who stood at a distance. He glanced at her hand with the slight lift of brows.
She kept her hand extended. “I am, as I suspect you know, Birgide Viranyi.”
He took it. His grip was firm, but brief.
“You are?”
“I am Haval Arwood. I have part-time residence within the West Wing as tailor and dressmaker.”
Had Jester mentioned a resident older man? Birgide offered him a neutral nod as he withdrew. He stood just outside of her natural unarmed combat range; he stood outside of her armed combat range, as well, although she was not visibly armed.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “but I’m not attired to entertain.”
“Meaning you would like me to leave you to your very necessary work.”
“Without intent to insult or offend, yes.”
“Intent is always a tricky thing.” He smiled.
The smile was disturbing. Birgide found herself unconsciously shifting position.
“I did not come here with intent to harm. I am not certain,” he added, glancing at the branches of the tree beneath which she stood, feet planted and slightly apart, knees almost imperceptibly bent, “that I would have found you, otherwise. These parts of the grounds are . . . difficult to navigate.”
“You’ve tried?�
��
He nodded. “I have always managed to find my way out. I do not believe this is guaranteed.”
She frowned. “Why did you try?”
“Because this forest is at the heart of The Terafin’s power, and I desired to have a better understanding of it.”
“And did you gain that?”
“No. But there are things beyond my ken at work.”
“And today?”
“I believe you intend to visit Avantari later this afternoon.”
Birgide nodded. She saw no point in denial.
“I would like you to carry a message for me when you go.”
“To who?”
“An old acquaintance. I do not guarantee that he will be pleased to receive it, however; it is not without some attendant risk.”
She revised her opinion of Haval Arwood in that moment; she would have to do some research—quickly—when she reached Avantari. “I am not, that I am aware of, often tasked with the duties of a messenger.”
“No? I foresee a future in which you will become accustomed to being so.” He handed her a scroll case; it was simple; it was also sealed. Birgide did not recognize the seal.
“To whom would you like this message delivered?”
He raised a brow but did not answer. Instead, he removed a leather satchel with narrow straps from his side. “This is for you, in payment for the favor I have asked. You may find it useful. You may not—and I would, in all honesty, prefer the latter. If it is not useful, keep it; if it is useful, return it.”
She frowned. She was not naturally trusting; had she been, Duvari would have beaten it out of her years ago. But she trusted her instincts, and Haval Arwood did not strike her as a threat.
“Is it valuable?” she asked, taking the satchel.
“Yes, but not in the traditional, mundane sense of that word. Honest dirt will not devalue it. My apologies for any delay my presence may have caused you.” He bowed. It was a neat, crisp bow.
Birgide glanced, briefly, at the satchel; the leather was worn and shiny; it was not new.
“Ah,” he said, pausing without turning back. “If you do, indeed end up speaking with him—and in the very worst case, you will not—tell him that he is, in my opinion, a smokescreen. The danger, should it arrive, will arrive here—in House Terafin—and not within Avantari. I have no proof, but I have uncovered information which strongly supports that supposition.”
“He’ll ask what it is,” Birgide said, reluctant to join this conversation, but equally reluctant to allow him to just walk away.
“No. He won’t. There is, however, a large possibility that we will be seeing more of each other in the near future.”
• • •
Birgide could easily carry a small satchel; she carried a large backpack, and several planters, in a small cart. She was not dressed as a dignitary of any note; nor was she dressed as one of the many, many servants within Avantari’s complicated hierarchy. She was, however, recognized by the part of the palace staff that had the responsibility for the interior grounds, and directed to the trade entrance.
The trade entrance of the palace was, however, militantly guarded. Birgide did not find this alarming; nor did she find it inconvenient. Today, in fact, it was the height of convenience. She stated her business and waited in a room that was only barely part of the palace’s interior. Given the attack on the Merchants’ Guild, the increased level of scrutiny was to be expected, and Birgide was not at all surprised to see a middle-aged woman, escorted by Kings’ Swords, enter the waiting area.
She wore, openly, the medallion of the Order of Knowledge, with the distinctive elemental symbols in a quartered circle. She was mage-born.
The Kings’ Swords were armed; one carried a crossbow. This was new, but it was, again, an acceptable precaution; she did not imagine the Sword who wielded that crossbow was particularly pleased to be doing so. Birgide had never understood the ways in which weapons were viewed by the royal guard—but she had never aspired to become one. She could wield a short sword should the situation demand it; she could wield a long sword, but with considerably less proficiency. In his place, given the possibility of demonic threat, she would have been far, far more comfortable with a ranged weapon.
She was a very good shot.
The mage stepped forward; she held out what appeared to be a slender gold-plated book. “Apologies,” she said, with an evident lack of sincerity, “but I will ask you to place your hand upon the cover of this book.”
Birgide examined the book. She could see, across its cover, the golden glow of strands of light. Gold was a color she had not yet encountered in her traversal of the Terafin manse. Without hesitation, she did as asked.
To her surprise, the lines of gold grew warmer and brighter at the touch; she could almost hear the snatches of a melody as the book was withdrawn. It was familiar music, in a bone-deep way, although she did not recognize it at all.
“Thank you for your cooperation.” The mage withdrew.
The Swords did not; they passed her into the main building itself. Avantari’s visitor galleries were grand and intimidating; the service entrances and hallways could not compare. They were, however, fully stone, and the ceiling, if lower, was vaulted. Manors in the hundred holdings could boast public halls as grand as these, although admittedly the decor in the palace was usually more impressive.
These halls lacked that decor; they lacked the runners and the long carpets; they lacked the paintings and the ornate weaponry that many seemed to feel were appropriate ornamentation. They had, on the other hand, gained the Kings’ Swords, in a single line against the wall to Birgide’s right. She moved past them; her cart—which was inspected carefully—echoing loudly in the high-ceilinged space.
First, she would do what she had come to do. Then, with luck, she would speak with Duvari.
• • •
As it happened, she was met by Sancor Littleton. He was not the Master Gardener, but answered directly to that august man, and he greeted Birgide with the weary, frustrated tolerance she had come to expect. When he saw the clippings, he frowned.
“You are not trying again, are you?” he asked, although the answer was so obvious he clearly asked to hear himself speak.
Birgide’s smile was self-deprecating. “I have been allowed access to the Terafin grounds,” she replied. “And these cuttings are from the trees that now tower there. I have some small hope that the results might be different.”
Sancor ran hands through his beard. “The Terafin Master Gardener is, at the present moment, an insufferable braggart.”
She laughed, although she considered the description unkind. “He is justifiably proud of the Terafin grounds at present; let him have his small moment of glory.”
“We would be content to let him have, as you call it, a small moment. He practically crows at every opportunity. He even has you working as part of his staff.”
Since Birgide suspected Sancor would bite off his own tongue before he condescended to offer her an actual position among the palace gardening staff, she made appropriate noises. All pretense aside, she did have hopes for these cuttings. If she had used that as an excuse to be here, it was nonetheless also true.
And to be fair to Sancor, if he disliked her, it was almost a matter of principle. She was, after all, an outsider; she was not the child of one of the servant lines that otherwise graced the staff. He would be beside himself with almost unequaled joy should these cuttings, against all prior experience and the odds that arose from them, take root.
The Ellariannatte were, after all, called the Kings’ Trees. If they could grow anywhere in the Empire, it should be here. Birgide, however, was content to have them grace the Common; in Avantari, they would be seen by vastly fewer people. She suspected that the reigning Terafin felt the same. Or perhaps felt it more strongly and more viscerally, given her
background.
Sancor passed her through the Swords that were on duty, and accompanied her to the Courtyard gardens. These gardens were not, strictly speaking, in a courtyard, but they were bound on all sides by the various buildings that comprised Avantari proper, and all of those buildings looked out—and down—upon them.
There were small pavilions, small viewing platforms, artfully surrounded by standing trees; there were small ponds, small running brooks and multiple fountains. The flower beds closest to the trees implied wilderness, but did so artfully; Birgide preferred them to the geometrically precise flower beds and grass at the edge of this so-called courtyard.
She wheeled her cart very carefully along the small and perfectly laid paths, abandoning it there; she could walk into the interior, and did so, taking only the planter with her; her tools hung belted around her waist.
There was no sign of Duvari—but there wouldn’t be, not yet. And while she waited, she worked.
• • •
Choosing a spot in which to plant the cuttings was an act of deliberation akin to moving armies, at least in Avantari. She had made some educated guesses when she informed Sancor, by letter, of her intent, and he had—as expected—vetoed all but two instantly. Every patch of ground here was personal; Birgide, who was happy to remain apolitical, nonetheless understood this.
In almost all cases, the cuttings would be planted in the various hothouses that fed into the gardens; the growth in the courtyard itself must imply perfection on all levels—and not all successful growth was perfect. Birgide was therefore sidestepping at least three different protocols to be here at all, and Sancor had made clear—odiously, condescendingly and desperately clear—that there would be ructions if her work interfered with his—or any of those under his direct command. Since Sancor would be the one called on the carpet if such damages took place, she had some sympathy with this—but she had chosen Sancor for a reason.
He was vain, he was arrogant, and he always felt slightly uncertain about his positioning on the staff, although he was much closer to the top of the hierarchy than Birgide could ever hope to become, all of her expertise notwithstanding. And he knew that she was now a member of the Terafin staff—and that, in Terafin, the Ellariannatte grew. She had standing permission to continue her various attempts to cultivate the trees here, but seldom invoked them as a right—there was always an unspoken cost to invoking rights people didn’t feel you ought to have been granted in the first place.
Oracle: The House War: Book Six Page 52