Jester shrugged. “I already told you. Your memory isn’t that bad.”
The tailor’s lips thinned. “I am willing to allow you to express the laziness for which you are so well known—but only to a point.”
Jester exhaled. “I offered her the Terafin name.”
“Under whose authority?”
“Jay’s.”
“An authority, in other words, you do not have.”
“I talked to Teller about it,” Jester replied. It was more or less true. “Teller is right-kin; he has that authority.”
“It is, at best, a provisional authority.”
“Jay’s not going to say no. Not now.”
Haval exhaled. “As she is not present, she cannot. I ask again: what has happened?”
“Does it matter?”
“Clearly, or I would not be asking. If I am to serve as adviser, the quality of the advice I offer is directly related to the facts I have at hand.”
“I trust her.”
“As much as you trust any outsider, yes. That’s clear. I would like an explanation as to why.”
“Because the forest chose her.”
Haval pinched the bridge of his nose. “That is not what I wanted to hear.”
“But it is what you expected.”
A rare smile graced the tailor’s face; it was sharp and bright. “You are becoming more observant. Will she find APhaniel?”
“Yes.”
“If he is still resident within the Terafin chambers, she will not be able to pass the Chosen.”
Jester smiled his signature, lazy smile. “Well, it’s not much of a test otherwise, is it?”
• • •
Birgide understood tests, she had passed so many of them. She had failed a number, as well, but the failures were fewer now than they had been. The cost of failure was too high.
She was willing to walk to the upper reaches of the Terafin manse in part because she did not wish to tell Jester or Haval that there were other ways to reach it. She herself wasn’t certain of the time it would take to navigate the forest to reach the internals of the manse—but she knew that The Terafin’s personal quarters were only tenuously part of the manse itself.
And she knew this until she approached the grand, double doors that led to those rooms. In size and shape they were of a piece with the older decor in the central manse; they were guarded by two of the Chosen—which meant The Terafin was not currently in those rooms.
Birgide stopped in front of the doors as the Chosen faced her. “I am here to speak with Meralonne APhaniel.”
“Meralonne APhaniel is not accepting visitors in these quarters,” the woman to the left replied. She was older, and as Birgide herself, visibly scarred.
“Is that by command of The Terafin, or his own decision?”
“He is not accepting visitors,” the woman repeated firmly.
Birgide nodded, but did not move; she was staring, now, at the doors themselves. The walk through the halls of the manse provided glimpses into the paranoia—or defense, depending on one’s context—of Terafin itself. The colored strands of light that ran like translucent streamers from height of ceiling to the floor were far denser from the height of the stairs than they had been anywhere but the right-kin’s office.
But they had not prepared her for the door itself. She was almost certain that nothing could have. Birgide could see the door she was certain the Chosen saw—but only with effort, and that effort had to be sustained. Without that effort, the door was not a door in any way. Nor was it a tunnel or a hole, although those were the first words that came to mind.
Golden light illuminated the hall, shed by the doors themselves—a light that reminded Birgide very much of the Ellariannatte. And why?
Why had she not seen this the first time Jester had dragged her here?
Like the great trees that had dominated Birgide’s adult life, the doors were alive. The light that shone from their core was not translucent; nor did it take the form of slender, weblike strands; it was rooted. What emanated from the core were branches and the glittering, shimmering shape of light-imbued leaves.
One of those branches slowly bent toward her; one of the leaves curved up, as if it were a celestial hand. She reached out with her left hand—always the left, as she favored the right—and pressed her palm against that leaf. It did not burn her; she had not expected it would.
But she had little idea of what to expect, and was as surprised as the Chosen when the doors that were not doors to her eyes rolled open. She was not, however, alarmed, and the Chosen were; swords left scabbards, and a faint tint of light in the hall made clear that one of the two had invoked some silent alarm.
She lifted her hand from the leaf and stepped back immediately, lifting her chin as well to expose the line of her throat. “I mean no harm,” she said, her voice low and even. “I did not intend to touch the door.” She was certain she hadn’t. She took a step back, but stopped three feet from the wall opposite the doors, her hands still exposed.
The guards, for their part, did not threaten her or give commands; they watched.
Only when the Captain of the Chosen—in this case, Arrendas, although there were two—came down the hall did they shift some small part of their attention. Arrendas ATerafin joined them.
“Report.”
The woman who had spoken now nodded in Birgide’s direction. “The doors to The Terafin’s chambers opened,” she said.
The captain understood immediately everything that had not been put into words. As a unit, Birgide found the Chosen quietly impressive. He turned to Birgide instantly; he was wary.
Birgide thought he knew who she was, and who, on the outside of the manse, she served. She reevaluated The Terafin’s relationship with her Chosen in that instant, and made decisions of her own. “I made no attempt to open the door, Captain,” she told him. “But I do not perceive the doors in the same fashion you perceive them. Jester ATerafin has some rank within the House; he bid me speak to Meralonne APhaniel.”
“The mage did not open the doors for you. Nor did the Chosen.”
“No,” she agreed.
“Will you tell me, then, that the doors opened themselves?”
“Yes.”
He turned to the woman. “Did she touch the doors at all?”
“No. She lifted her left hand—slowly. She uttered no words; she did not appear to be giving commands at all.”
“And the doors opened.”
The woman nodded again. She was no happier with this than the captain.
“There are no doors within The Terafin’s chambers that would not open for this woman should she desire entry,” a new voice said. New, at least, to the conversation. Unheard and unremarked, Meralonne APhaniel had stepped through those open doors.
The Chosen exchanged a glance; it was the captain who spoke. “On whose authority?”
“The Terafin’s,” Meralonne replied.
“The Terafin is absent, and she did not leave such instructions with the Chosen.”
“No. These are not instructions that could have been left with the Chosen.”
“They were left with you?”
“Of course not.” Meralonne pulled his pipe from his robes, which had an instant effect on the Chosen; they relaxed. This was subtle; there was no change in their stance or the height of their weapons; no shift in the direction of their focused gaze. But it could be heard in the slight change of breathing pattern.
Meralonne, smoking, implied a lack of present or immediate danger to them. To Birgide, it did not, but the context of Terafin was not the context of the Astari or even the Order of Knowledge.
“APhaniel,” the captain said, terse now.
Meralonne lifted silver brow, but failed to otherwise respond. He did, however, light the leaves that now lined the bowl of h
is pipe. “You do not understand the position Birgide Viranyi was offered; nor do you understand that she accepted it. In truth, I am not certain The Terafin herself does.
“But I understand it. She is, to the gardens behind the manse, what the Terafin Master Gardener is to the rest of the grounds.”
“And that?”
The mage frowned. “She is their defender and their keeper. She cannot materially decide what will, or will not, grow—or rather, she can, but it is subject to The Terafin’s whim.”
“The Terafin is not present,” the captain repeated.
“No, of course not.” He glanced at Arrendas as if he was reevaluating the captain’s intelligence—and not to the benefit of the captain. “But the forest has taken a shape and growth that is of her. In her absence the forest does not significantly alter its character, nor will it unless she returns and her intent has changed.”
“What, exactly, were you offered?” Arrendas demanded—of Birgide.
Birgide said, quietly, “The forest.”
“You are Warden,” Meralonne added. It was not a question.
“I’m not certain what that means,” she replied. “But it is not the first time I have been called that.”
“It will not be the last. You wished to speak with me?” He glanced at the Chosen. The Chosen resumed their posts. The captain, however, said, “How does this position affect The Terafin?”
Birgide did not hesitate. “While The Terafin is absent, the forest itself is vulnerable in ways the Chosen cannot alleviate.” She spoke without heat, and almost without inflection. “Not all of the Chosen can enter the forest. All can enter The Terafin’s personal chambers; there is a path between these . . . doors and the functional rooms. But stray from that path, and it is my belief that the Chosen might have difficulty finding the way back to the manse.”
Arrendas looked to Meralonne, who nodded and blew concentric smoke rings.
“I can enter the forest. I can always find my way out. I can,” she added, with a smile she could not entirely contain, “find my way to the single tree that defines its heart. I am tasked with protection of the domains into which the Chosen cannot easily enter or exit.
“I am tasked with attempting to detect intruders who might enter the Terafin manse or properties from the wilderness. In the past, those have been demons. I am not certain what might attempt such trespass in future, but I have been given the tools to sound the alarm when such alarm must be raised.” When the captain failed to nod—or move—Birgide said, “I am to speak with Finch ATerafin either this evening or in the early morning before she makes her way to the Merchant Authority. Finch habitually retains Chosen when within the manse; no doubt the Chosen will be present for that interview.
“Jester ATerafin, however, was the only witness to my investiture.”
“And he accepted it.”
Birgide nodded quietly. To her surprise, the captain appeared to relax. Or relent. Birgide would not have assumed Jester’s name could have that effect on anyone outside of the den. “I came to speak with the House mage on behalf, indirectly, of the Twin Kings.”
Meralonne raised both brow and pipe. “I am seldom called by the Kings.”
“You have been called far more frequently than a lowly botanist.”
“Indeed. What brings you to me? I am in the exclusive employ of Terafin; general inquiries may be delivered to the guildmaster in my absence.”
“I am tasked with seeking namann.”
• • •
A long pause followed; tobacco burned in the pipe’s bowl, undisturbed. “That is neither safe, nor wise.”
“No. The gods felt that you would be aware of his—or her—existence. They did not tell me what to look for.”
“They understand namann’s nature, up to a point.”
“He was sighted in the city.”
Meralonne said nothing.
“During the attack upon the Merchants’ Guild.”
“He was no part of that attack.” There was no doubt at all in Meralonne’s voice—and Meralonne had been a large part of the city’s defense.
“They did not imply that he was; merely that he was seen, and that he was of interest—of necessary interest—to the city itself.”
“And so you seek namann.”
“I seek, at least, information about him.”
“Has it occurred to you that the creature you seek might have no interest in the city, or its defense?”
Birgide nodded. “I am, however, a simple botanist, and when the gods give delicately worded commands in front of their sons, I hasten to obey.” Her smile was slight, but it invoked an answering smile from the mage. And pipe smoke.
To the Chosen—without a glance—Meralonne said, “We will converse in the inner chamber. In future, Birgide Viranyi is to be given access to all areas of the manse that are readily available to me.”
“That is not your purview,” the captain predictably replied.
“I will, if necessary, speak with the right-kin and the regent.”
Regent. The word hung in the air for a long, silent moment, untouched. The captain did not concede; he retreated. The mage offered Birgide a surprisingly deep bow. “It is merely a matter of pride,” he said, pipe stem briefly pressed between lips. “I could not stop you from entering this domain while you live—and I suspect your death would be very, very difficult for even a First Circle mage to achieve.” This, he offered as the Chosen listened. Birgide suspected it was as much of a concession as the mage was willing to make; they would, of course, hear, and they would, of course, report.
Birgide once again stepped into the heart of the Terafin manse. She felt, as she did, that the description was literal: here, the wild, ancient magics with which the forest itself was imbued were at their peak. She could hear the muted whispers of moving leaves in the ancient trees as if she was standing beneath their boughs; she could hear the gurgling flow of brooks or streams in the distance.
And she could see Meralonne APhaniel as she had never seen him; it was Meralonne who drew and held her attention.
• • •
His working robes had vanished, to be replaced by raiment of silver and gold, and his hair—white and striking in its length—was platinum, its fall unimpeded. His forehead was unbroken by adornment, but Birgide expected to see a crown or circlet across his brow.
His eyes, like his hair, were platinum. Age had never defined the mage; his age had long been a guessing game among the young and the naive who had entered the Order’s doors by passing their many tests, most written.
But seeing him now, she knew that he was ageless. No lines, no blemishes, no touch of sun disturbed his perfect features. She reached out to touch him, her mouth half-open, and stopped before she could lose her hand.
But his smile deepened, as did his amusement, and the pipe in his hand—worn, weathered, and clearly well-loved—did not change at all. “You are not the Warden I would have chosen,” he told her quietly.
She struggled to find her voice. What she found instead was Duvari’s. She knew exactly what he would say, should he venture upon them now: Meralonne APhaniel, a First Circle mage, and Birgide, one of the Astari, gawking like a pampered young noblewoman. It grounded her.
“The forest,” she replied, with quiet dignity, “is not yours. It’s not your decision to make.”
His smile was brilliant, unfettered, unlined; he glanced, once, at his smoking pipe. She almost—almost—offered to hold it for him. “No, indeed. Do you understand the nature of the power granted you?”
“No.”
“You are remarkably honest. I am not certain such honesty is wise.”
“There are two cases in which honesty is irrelevant.”
“You’re quoting.”
“I am. In any situation in which the power and knowledge resides entirely on on
e side, honesty is irrelevant. It makes no difference.”
“You do not believe that you hold all of the power.”
“No. You do.”
“Do not be rash,” he replied. “You make assumptions based on your certainty of your own ignorance. You are not without power here. It is my belief that your power, in this place, is the greater power. If I were to leave the manse, it would no longer be undefended.”
“And will you?”
“Not yet, Birgide. Not yet. You have spoken with gods, and the gods have answered—but as with any beings of power, they have expressed their intent and desire poorly. Namann is unusual. It would be best if you left off your search.”
She said nothing.
“But if you will not, there are things you must know. Namann, in the ancient anals, was considered of the firstborn.”
“Firstborn?”
“The scion of the wild gods, born when the gods walked the plane and mingled, however briefly, with the living. You have heard of the Wild Hunt? The White Lady who rides at its head is of the firstborn. The Oracle is firstborn. There are others,” he added, pausing to inhale a stream of smoke.
“You don’t believe namann is firstborn.”
“In keeping with his existence, he is—and is not. No restrictions were placed upon his form; nor were restrictions placed upon the power he received. The gods in their youth created him, in concert. He did not have a single parent, or even two, but many. Not one of the gods withheld their power. He is the only proof that gods long dead existed. He can never be all of one thing, or all of another. The gods did not tell you what to look for; they offered no description. They could not. Namann defies simple categorization.
“In the eyes of mortals, he might take any form; he might take parts of any form—but those parts would not appear cohesive or whole. His appearance has always unsettled those who view him. Were he within the city, believe that you would know.”
“If he can take any form he desires—”
“You do not understand. The form he takes is only tenuously wed to his desire; he is pulled, constantly, by many shapes and many powers, and he is torn between them almost literally. If he has come to be in the city, do not assume that he has lived here disguised and in isolation. If he has found some method or manner of securing a physical form and you interfere, the damage that might be done to the city is incalculable.”
Oracle: The House War: Book Six Page 68