• • •
The knives struck cloth with force. Finch buckled; this was not entirely dramatics; it hurt. She thought there was a chance that she had cracked a rib, or rather, that a rib had been cracked. The would-be assassin would have no chance to strike again.
Haval had seen to that. Apparently with a dinner knife, since no weapon of any sort remained in his hand and his setting was missing cutlery. She had not seen him move, and when she glanced up through the momentary pain-blindness, he looked confused or even frightened.
It was a performance worthy of Jarven.
Finch rose, twisted, and threw herself bodily between Teller and the wall against which the sideboard rested. It was not a simple act of precaution. What she could survive, Teller might not.
Daine, of course, had been alerted; Daine was waiting in the healerie. But it would be far, far better if his services were not required. Vareena, however, was with him. She was a silent, withdrawn girl, more like Duster in appearance than any but Finch had noticed. But she had been healed by Daine, and her ambivalence in being discovered warred with the desire to remain by Daine’s side.
Finch intended to keep her.
But to do it, she would have to survive. Andrei had all but pushed the Araven patris out of obvious harm’s way; Finch, taking one dagger in the back just beneath her left shoulder blade, drew a single sharp breath, and pushed Teller in the same direction. He caught her arms and dragged her with him as Torvan and Arrendas closed with the remaining servants.
The servants lifted hands, palms empty, in the universal gesture of surrender. Had the Chosen not been exceptionally suspicious, vigilant men, they might have died there. One—one at least—was mage-born.
It was not the first time the captains had encountered the mage-born. Lightning struck the floor where Arrendas stood, sword steadied; it missed. It barely missed; the captains were in armor, the servants were not.
Torvan shouted for backup as Arrendas drove the edge of his sword into the neck of the mage.
No one answered their captain’s command. Nor did either man wait for a response; they were moving, now. Finch did not order them to subdue the two men—or the one that remained standing; she did not order them to take the obviously dying man to the healerie. She was unwilling to take that risk. But she looked across the table to Jester, who stood by Birgide, and lifted her hands, fingers flashing.
Jester, grim, signed back. Need a drink. He hesitated, and then added, not finished yet.
Finch nodded. Kalliaris, she thought. Smile. Please. Smile.
• • •
Very few people considered Jarven a threat if he was not actively harming them. His power was a threat, if handled precisely and with care, but Jarven himself was considered too old and too feeble to be dangerous. Of the handful of people who exercised deplorable caution, three of them were—or had been—at this table, and one had been standing against the wall.
Haval’s reflexes had not appreciably atrophied in the decades since he had last theoretically put them to use; the servant who had launched two throwing knives directly at Finch was now dead, her attempt to end Jarven’s life stalled by Haval’s cutlery.
“Be wary,” he told Haval. “The Chosen stationed outside of this room cannot, apparently, hear their captains.”
Haval nodded. His gaze strayed, briefly, to the door—which, from this vantage, looked normal. “Attempt to be helpful,” he added, as he stepped back from the table to briefly examine the fallen servant. “Jester.”
Jester was armed, his pale skin a white that would look at home on the dead.
Jarven moved to take advantage of the protection Andrei offered his master.
“If this was your doing,” Hectore began.
“This is not the time, Hectore.” Jarven indicated the Araven servant; Andrei had turned to face the doors.
Neither man would therefore have been surprised had the doors been broken down; that was not, however, what happened. The elegant wooden panels simply faded, becoming a rounded, open space that implied window. It was a window into a sea of whirling color that appeared to be struggling to coalesce into a familiar shape.
Hectore reached out and put a hand on Andrei’s left arm. “Wait,” he said. It was not a request. But it was not, quite, a command, either. He let go when a familiar man stepped into a dining room that now seemed lamentably small.
• • •
“I see,” Haerrad ATerafin said, “that you started without me. A pity.” His smile, given the scarred map of his face, was slightly twisted. It was also unusual; Haerrad, in Jester’s experience, rarely smiled. For that reason—among others—Jester kept him at a safe distance, preferably in a different holding to the one Jester occupied. It wasn’t always possible.
But there was something in his expression that was off. The temptation to assume that he was simply revealing his true colors came—and went. Jester’s hand slid into his tunic. He glanced once at Birgide, whose expression was also unnatural—especially the color of her eyes. They had gone from a rust brown which could almost pass for natural to a red-orange that spoke of fire.
Jester started forward; she caught his arm—without once looking away from Haerrad.
Jarven said, quietly, “Don’t kill Haerrad if you can avoid it.”
Jester turned to look at the old man.
“Stab him in a limb; don’t aim for anything fatal.” As if Jarven knew of the dagger Jester carried, and had come to the same conclusion that Jester had almost arrived at. And damn him, he probably did.
Jester did not like to take orders from anyone. He actively resented taking them from Jarven. But he was no longer rebellious or resentful enough to refuse to do what was practical just because of the possible illusion of obedience. He glanced at Haval; Haval, hands behind his back, had stepped clear of the table—and of Birgide. His face was a mask.
Birgide, arms by her sides, said, “Haerrad.”
Haerrad’s smile deepened. “So,” he said, as if Birgide was the only person in the room who was worthy of his attention, “it is true. But you are not yet established in your tenure; a pity. It would have been interesting to see if you were truly capable of becoming a worthy foe.
“In the absence of your Terafin, you are not yet one.”
The floor directly beneath Haerrad’s feet burst into flame.
• • •
Given the widening of Haerrad’s eyes, the fire was not his. And as it leaped, licks of flame thinned and grew, twining around each other as if fire attempted, this once, to mimic ivy. From where he stood, Jester could feel the heat.
“What is this?” Haerrad demanded. “Is there a traitor amongst you?” The question made no sense to Jester. “Tell me,” he said, his voice expanding and deepening. He swept the fire aside with his hands; flames caught the fine turn of laceless cuff, singeing it. Jester thought he saw blisters form across the pads of Haerrad’s palms.
Birgide did not move. “Leave,” she said quietly.
Haerrad laughed. “Do you think I require your permission to be here, little mortal? If such permission were required, how would I be here at all? You overestimate both your power and your import.”
“You are only barely here,” Birgide replied.
The smile on Haerrad’s face guttered.
“I do not know how you entered this place at all—but you will leave it, now.”
Haerrad lifted his left hand. Jester would not have been surprised had a sword or shield come to it; nothing did. But Birgide staggered back two steps; Jester caught her, steadying her. After a few seconds, it was no longer necessary.
“Do not,” Jarven said, in a colder, stronger voice, “kill him.”
“You wish to take me alive?” The smile returned to Haerrad. “How quaint, and how foolish. I am not under any such restriction. You will perish here, tonight, all of you.”
He turned to Finch, and his hand flew out in a fist, opening at the last moment as if he were throwing something.
Finch, pale and grim, stood her ground, waiting.
“What is this?” Haerrad said, when nothing happened. “Clearly we have, as we feared, been misinformed.” He gestured with his other hand; Finch staggered. She did not, however, fall; nor did she perish. Jester could feel the hair on the back of his neck stiffen. It was very, very seldom that he felt raw, visceral fear.
The fires that twined in a circle around the House Council member grew thicker; the mesh of tendrils, stronger. They scorched both carpet and flooring where they stood—but they did not spread at all, proof if it were needed that they were under Birgide’s control.
“Is this all you have, little pretender? Or are you afraid to use the power of your station against me? Or perhaps you are waiting for rescue? That is very mortal of you. If you wait upon Illaraphaniel, you will wait long; he is otherwise occupied this eve. He will arrive, but too late.”
And Finch said, clearly, “We do not require his aid.” She stood, arms by her sides, her unremarkable, mousy hair pulled tight off her face. She was, as she had always been, slender almost to the point of shapelessness, as if the lean hunger of her early years refused to leave her. “You are not Haerrad.”
“Am I not?”
“No. I have some familiarity with both Haerrad and his many, many incursions; poison is not Haerrad’s game. It is too impersonal. Assassination? Yes. He is no stranger to that. But he is of Terafin, and he would never assassinate an outsider of Hectore of Araven’s import.”
“I am not here for Hectore, but for you and the right-kin.”
“And you intend to let him live?”
“Of course. He will serve as necessary—and disinterested—witness. Or he would have, but sadly, you have spoken too much.” He gestured again. For one silent moment, Jester felt that he was standing on the pier in the harbor, watching the storm roll in, the air was that charged.
The demon pulled his arms in and when they shot out, something struck armor; Torvan staggered. Arrendas moved toward the circle of fire, sword raised.
Finch heard, of all things, Jarven’s muttered imprecation.
Dishes flew, as if grabbed by a plethora of invisible hands; for the first time since even the pretense of dinner had so abruptly come to a halt, Finch raised her arms to cover her face. She lowered them briefly when she heard the sound of cracking wood. The doors that had nestled against the wall had already vanished; it was not, therefore, the doors. Nor was it the floor, although the planks beneath her feet seemed to shudder, as if the room were resident on a great, sailing ship, and not within a manor.
It was the ceiling. The exposed, stained beams directly above the table shuddered once, as if too great a weight had been placed, instantly, across them.
Finch did not believe she could survive the weight of whatever now crushed the roof; the dress that Haval had so painstakingly—and resentfully—constructed had limits. But she wasn’t certain the ceiling was collapsing. It was, however, dropping chunks of dead wood and plaster.
None of it hit the guests. The sideboard would be scored and dinged, but neither it nor the table had collapsed. Most of the cutlery and dishes had been thrown across the room at the people who now cowered behind Andrei. None of them hit.
Finch raised her eyes.
What had once been flat ceiling with exposed beams and a simple chandelier was fast becoming a weave of vines. It was disturbing to watch their growth; they seemed almost sentient as they discarded elements of the roof. Finch thought of snakes. It was not comforting.
And yet, in some fashion, it was.
The fire that surrounded Haerrad rose.
One lone vine, twisted and nubbled, reached down from the heights to meet tendrils of fire. For one held breath, Finch thought the vine would burn. It did not. But it drew the fire toward Birgide Viranyi, and she held out a hand to receive it. Her face was pale, her expression intent; she did not hesitate to take the two vines in each of her palms.
Finch thought she smelled singed flesh.
Jester moved out from behind Birgide, dagger in hand. Even at this distance, Finch recognized the ornate, engraved blade for what it was: consecrated. Finch wasn’t certain what it would do against mortal flesh, because she was almost certain that Haerrad himself was still alive; that the creature that manipulated his mouth and his body was not yet the whole of him—as it had once been of Rath.
Finch had no love for Haerrad. In order to threaten Jay, he’d had Teller injured. He had not, however, had him killed. There was very, very little that Haerrad would not do in order to gain power; very few tools he would not use. He had retained—privately—the services of the magi; he had retained, more privately, services that were less easily categorized. He had used bribery where possible, and extortion where it was not. In Finch’s observations, he seemed to prefer the expense of bribery.
She could not imagine that he would willingly carry a demon into the Terafin manse—not when the container was his own person. No, she would go further. In the end, no matter how much she despised him, she could not believe that he would use demons in his attempt to gain power.
Finch understood why Jarven wanted him alive. For the moment, so did she.
She frowned, her gaze sweeping the room—or as much of the room as she could see; Andrei and Hectore were in the way. Jester stood by Birgide; Haval stood nearer Hectore than he had, moments before; Torvan and Arrendas stood on the outside of the ring of fire, swords in hand, waiting for an opening.
Jarven was no longer in the room. Or rather, Jarven could no longer be seen. Finch caught Hectore’s arm to draw him farther back; he was rigid. He might as well have been rooted; she could not move him. Nor did he acknowledge the attempt.
“Hectore.”
“We are not in danger,” Hectore replied, all chaos to the contrary.
Andrei nodded. Finch heard Hectore’s muttered curse. She caught his arm again. “What do you fear, Hectore?”
“You can ask me that at a time like this? There is more steel in you than even I guessed.”
Andrei, to Finch’s surprise, chuckled. “ATerafin,” he said, and then, because Teller and Jester were present, “Finch. Never pick up a tool that you are unwilling, in the end, to use. It is a waste.”
But Finch said, “If you consider friendship or service a simple tool, I have misjudged you.”
“And if I consider it a complex tool?”
“I’ve still misjudged you.”
Hectore laughed; most of the sound was lost to the surging crackle of flame. Some of the tension left him, then. It did not leave his servant—but it wouldn’t. Andrei was, to Hectore, what the entirety of the Chosen were to The Terafin. He would relax when this was over. Or when he was dead.
“There is a danger,” Andrei said.
Finch, watching the writhing mass of vines above their head, agreed. Three servants—if they were servants, and at this point, Finch doubted it—lay dead or dying. The interior of the private dining chamber had been destroyed; it looked worse, now, than the West Wing’s dining room.
Fire rose around Haerrad like a cage; he parted it with effort, the lazy smile extinguished. Birgide raised a hand, spoke a word—a word that resonated in the air, but that Finch could not repeat, even then—and the entire room brightened.
It was the brightness of open windows; it was the brightness of clear, noon sky. It was a warm natural light, as unlike the light fire shed as light could be.
Haerrad roared. Literally roared. Finch had heard demonic roaring before, and this was not it. He sounded berserk, yes—but not inhuman. She did not understand how demons could occupy living bodies in this fashion. She was certain that Haerrad was not talent-born, but he had—in this room—used magic.
“Leave,” Birgide sa
id.
Haerrad pulled a knife. It was a small knife; it was not meant for fighting. Finch understood, when he lifted it, what he intended.
But so, apparently, did Jarven.
“Apologies,” he said, stepping out of nowhere into the demon’s line of sight, “but I cannot allow that.” He caught Haerrad’s wrist as the knife rose, and Finch heard bone snap. “Jester, now if you please.” He did not release the arm, but raised his own as Haerrad attempted to sweep him aside with the arm that was not yet broken. Finch was certain that Jarven could survive it, but found herself holding her breath.
Jester was across the room in seconds, dagger in hand. His face was not, as Haval’s or Jarven’s, expressionless. For one long exhale, she thought he would stab Haerrad—and he did, but only in the arm.
Where demons were concerned, it didn’t matter. The consecrated dagger pierced flesh and drew blood—Haerrad’s flesh, Haerrad’s blood. The creature screamed in either fear or fury; Finch couldn’t tell which, and didn’t care.
Haerrad’s legs collapsed beneath him, his knees giving; he controlled his fall.
“Birgide!” Jester shouted.
The flames that encircled him went out. He lifted his broken wrist, pulling it defensively into his chest, where he cradled it with care. But he looked up; Jarven was standing not five feet from his upturned face. Jester was closer. Finch left the protection of both Andrei and Hectore and came to stand between them.
Haerrad’s forehead glistened with sweat. “There are firsts for everything,” he said, meeting Jarven’s almost unblinking gaze. “I never thought I would have any cause to be grateful for a broken limb.” His gaze flickered over Jester, his lips in full frown. “Or stab wounds, either.” That gaze now settled on Finch. “How did you know?”
“We are in The Terafin’s chambers,” was her smooth reply. “There are defenses and protections built into this place.”
“You expected something to happen tonight.”
She nodded. “I was surprised to see you. On reflection, it makes sense. How did you come to be possessed?”
He grimaced.
Oracle: The House War: Book Six Page 78