You’re immortal, she said quietly.
I am still, and always, a man—but I cannot die, no matter how much damage I take. The gods were not unkind; the damage heals, the body renews. But eternity becomes a curse, with the passage of time. Shianne will learn to fear hunger, but the cold? The summer heat? No. She will not privilege or cherish life the way you and your kin do—not even the life of the child she carries. There was a hesitation in his voice, a sudden well that implied endless depth without illumination.
Jewel turned as a demon roared.
She saw Terrick’s axhead buried in the side of the creature’s neck; blood spurted as he yanked it free. Angel’s sword was likewise buried in demonic flesh. A rivulet of blood fell, traveling the contours and crevices of the creature’s slender height; it seeped into the earth yards from Jewel’s feet. She felt it as if she were the earth; it was warm and wet. Like summer rain or tears. Instinctively, she cupped her palms as if to catch it; she could not later say why.
Kallandras leaped into the air; it carried him as he joined Angel and Terrick in their battle. Celleriant glanced at the three and almost shrugged; he looked, instead, to the sky.
Jewel reached out to catch his arm before he returned to combat, as the bard had done.
Adam inhaled, the sound sharp enough to cut silence without quite breaking it. “Tell the cats to land,” he told Jewel, eyelids trembling as he lifted his face. He didn’t open his eyes. He didn’t lift his hands.
“They’re not here,” she told him.
“They are.”
She hesitated only briefly. She did not understand what Adam was doing—but she trusted him. He was healer-born; he could sense, by touch, what she would pay money never to have to look at.
“Snow! Night! Come to me!” she shouted, although she couldn’t see the cats for the light all around: the gold and the blue of Avandar’s dome, the strange trails of light above it, and the roving clash of red and blue that sounded, at this remove, like thunder.
She heard Shadow hiss laughter, and saw, at last, the winding shadows of his two brothers as they made their way to the ground, crossing all barriers as if they were nonexistent. Night took a chunk out of demon leg as he buzzed past.
Jewel turned to Snow; Shianne was still seated upon his back. Only when Shianne moved did Jewel remember to breathe. Had Shianne been anyone else, Jewel would have run to her side and pulled her off the white, furry miscreant.
She was, however, Shianne. She looked much like the Winter Queen herself: a presence that should not be approached or touched.
She was pale, to Jewel’s eye—even paler than she had been; her eyes seemed dull, although she couldn’t say why, they were still the same bright silver. “If . . .” she trailed off. Turned to face Teller, who was waiting.
“We ran into some trouble we couldn’t defeat while we walked the Oracle’s path.”
“And you came here?”
Remembering that Haerrad was among her kin, she said, more stiffly than she had intended, “Yes. Here is the heart of my power. We seem to have lost the worst of the demons and the giant, flying serpent, though.”
“And you have returned with a new companion.” It was Andrei who spoke. His eyes were wide, his face as pale as Shianne’s. He did not approach; he bowed. This bow was very like the bow he had offered Jewel; it did not discomfort Shianne in the same way.
She bid him rise; Hectore did not. Not even Hectore could speak, for a moment, in her presence. Only when Andrei rose did the servant’s expression betray surprise—but there was sorrow in it, as well.
“I did not think to see you here,” Shianne said quietly. “These lands are not unoccupied.”
“This is not the first time I have visited them.”
“And it is allowed?” She turned, then, to Jewel. “These lands . . . are yours?”
“They are mine.”
“Do you understand what or who your . . . guest . . . is?”
“He is servant to Hectore of Araven. I owe him my life, although I am not certain he would remember the incident; it occurred when I was a child.”
“I see. Mortals are strange.” She turned once again to Andrei, her eyes narrowed. “Who is Hectore of Araven? I have never heard his name.”
Jewel started to answer, but Andrei lifted a hand; she fell silent. Hectore had not chosen to speak or identify himself. “We did not meet often in the wilderness,” Andrei said quietly. “And on the few occasions we did, the outcome was uncertain. I am not permitted to rekindle old hostilities at present.”
“And I have no interest in them, now. I do not think I would be a worthy opponent in my current state.” She turned her face toward the sky. “. . . Or perhaps ever, again. Jewel, do you know this Hectore of Araven?”
“I do.”
“Is he powerful enough to contain the being who stands before us?”
Jewel did not hesitate. “He is.”
Andrei raised one familiar brow.
“I’m seer-born,” she told him, before he could speak. “The answer is a visceral yes.”
“You do not even understand the question.”
“I don’t need to understand all of it, Andrei.”
He was silent for three long beats; no one rushed in to fill that silence because they were having difficulty dragging their eyes away from Shianne. Jewel felt sympathy for their efforts; she had the same problem. Given the nature of the rest of the problems she faced, it was welcome.
“I will not argue with you here; you do not have the time. Do not,” Andrei told her gently, “leave the circle Viandaran has traced upon the ground. You have not yet finished whatever task the Oracle set you, and there is no entrance to her realm from here. You stand on a narrow path woven out of two—no, three—disparate places; diverge from that path and you will fall into one of the three.
“You can see—”
“I see winter,” he replied, “and Ellariannatte. It is to the winter you must return. But, Terafin, the Warden of Dreams has touched the edge of your domain in your absence.”
She stiffened.
“Mortals could—and did—hold small pockets of the wild lands; one or two even reached the high wilderness and survived. But there is a reason that the Cities of Man were cities, and immovable. The Sen could not long hold what they had built if they traveled far from it, or were absent too long—and they did travel. Some were lost, although those tales have passed beyond legend and memory.”
“Do you remember?”
“No. I was never given permission to enter the cities. The Warden of Dreams was more welcome than I; he had more to offer in return for the power he gained. But even then, mortals were, and could be, wary.” He then turned his attention to Angel, Terrick, and Kallandras; they had finished.
Jewel signed to Angel, who nodded; he spoke in Rendish to the older Northern man, and they approached her—with care. To Teller and Finch, she said, “We encountered Darranatos on the road.”
Finch was silent for a beat. Two. But she spoke. “They knew where you were going.”
“Looks like. They started a fight; half of us avoided the dangerous bits for a while, but the fight itself threatened to wake the earth. Only the people who can fly would have survived it.” She hesitated, considered Isladar. In the end, she chose to keep his presence to herself. “Where is the Warden of Dreams?”
“If they are wise,” Andrei replied, “they do not remain in your lands.”
“Wisdom,” a very familiar voice said, “is not the province of dreams. Nor, in the end, the province of Nightmare.”
Jewel folded her arms and turned in the direction of this new voice.
• • •
She was not the only person who turned. Given the form he had chosen to adopt, he drew all eyes; Shadow fell momentarily silent. Snow and Night, who were bickering over their landing s
pot, did not. Shadow roared, wordless, which caught their attention; they slunk, bellies a bare foot above the ground, to surround Jewel, with their high wings and upright fur. Night, however, stepped on Angel’s foot.
“You have no permission to walk my lands,” Jewel said, drawing shoulders back and lifting chin.
The Warden of Dreams inclined his head. She thought, given the stretch of raven-black wings, she addressed the Nightmare brother; she could not be certain. He was a full foot taller than the tallest person present; slender of build; he was cloaked, but seemed almost a thing of shadow, something darkly ethereal with very little physical form.
“I did not realize what you would do when you journeyed from your lands into the wilderness.” He glanced at Shianne, who watched him.
The caution she had shown Andrei was absent. She bowed.
“You remember me?” he asked, evincing naked surprise.
“Yes. Firstborn and youngest, I remember. You are not now what you were then.”
His smile was bright, unfettered. “I have grown, Shandalliaran. I have grown.”
“So I see. I travel with the lord of these lands, now.”
He frowned.
“I do not fully understand what—or who—she is, but I seek the White Lady. Will you impede our progress?” She lifted her face to sky and light and blue and red, and her eyes narrowed briefly. But she smiled as she saw the trees. “These lands are far older than she—but they feel young, to me. And you are here.” She held out both of her hands, palms up, as if she expected him to take them in his own.
He shook his head. “I am not fully here.”
“You shouldn’t even be partially here,” Jewel told him. She was more than willing to interrupt the Warden of Dreams.
He ignored her. Shianne did not. “How do you come to be here at all?”
“Much has changed since you stepped out of all worlds,” he replied. “Much. The gods. The White Lady. The firstborn. Even your brethren. Do you understand what has occurred?”
“I have been informed of the facts—but no, Warden, I do not understand. Nor do I think I ever will.”
“Perhaps if you asked them, you might.”
Jewel froze.
The Warden lifted his face toward the canopy of lights that looked so much like fireworks captured in a single, raining moment. “One—only one—is present; he is not yet fully awake—but soon, Shandalliaran. Soon.”
“You’re here,” Jewel said, “because of the Sleepers.”
“Their dreams are not mortal dreams; they exist without boundary. They traverse all realms—and yet, none. No one of my brethren could travel thus; only me. Only us. I do not wish to see them waken,” he added.
“Then why are you here?”
“There are only two ways to prevent that awakening,” he replied. “You are not the only one who wishes their sleep to continue indefinitely—but, Terafin, I do not think you have the will to see it through. The Lord of the Hells does.”
“The Lord of the Hells,” Andrei replied, “does not have the power.”
“He is a god. She is a mortal. What must be done can be done—but not if she is here to oppose him: the Sleepers will wake in the exchange of hostilities. I aid his interests because they align—for the moment—with my own. I bear you no animosity,” he added, speaking to Jewel, although he looked only at Shianne.
“The feeling is not mutual.”
“I am afraid,” Andrei said quietly, “that I cannot allow the fall of this House.”
“The House will not fall. It will, of necessity, require a different lord.” The Warden of Dreams frowned and added, “I did not recognize you.” His lip didn’t curl—but it would have, had he been merely mortal. To Jewel he said, “While you survive, it is best to keep a clean house. You intend to disperse me—and you can, while you are here. But you will not remain. You might never return.” His smile was slender and dark and narrow. “It is my task to make certain of it; had I been given servants of certain competence, we would not now be having this conversation.”
“Finch. Teller. What’s happened?”
Silence. It was Haval who answered. Of course it was. “Councillor Haerrad was possessed by a demon. The demon used him to arrange for the poisoning of Finch, Teller, Jarven, and possibly Hectore. In your absence, Birgide Viranyi—”
“I know what she is,” Jewel said, terse now. Angry. No one asked her how she knew, which was for the best, because Jewel had no answer.
“Birgide protected all present; the demon in possession of the Council member was removed. We repaired to the forest itself, where the protections against the demonic and the magical are at their strongest.”
“Haerrad was possessed.”
“Indeed.”
“He is not possessed now.” It wasn’t a question. Before he could speak, she added, “For the objective, external observer, it might be harder to tell the difference. I am neither of those.”
She shouldn’t have been surprised to hear Haerrad burst into laughter; it was short, harsh, sharp—very much like Haerrad himself.
“I have only one question for the Councillor. Were you awake and aware when the demon possessed you?”
“I was.”
“Then I have one further question. Before you answer, understand that while I am not bard-born, Kallandras of Senniel is present. Was the possession facilitated by Rymark?”
“I cannot confirm that,” was Haerrad’s careful reply. “The possession occurred during a meeting with Rymark and Verdian. Sabienne was also present. We were not, however, in seclusion; the meeting did not occur within the manse. We dined at the Placid Sea. There were therefore servers and attendants, any of whom might be involved. If I were to be poisoned, for instance, during such a meal, Rymark would never touch the poison—or my various dishes—himself. It would be beneath him. It would,” he added, smiling, “be beneath me.”
“What we know,” Haval said, when Haerrad had finished and silence reigned for a beat, “is that the arrival of the possessed Haerrad was facilitated by an outsider. I presume it would be the person you now refer to as the Warden of Dreams.” He raised an arm when Finch started forward. She immediately froze in place.
Haerrad glanced, briefly, at Finch. “The demon’s intent was to supervise the deaths of all members of the gathered dinner party, but of them, Birgide and Finch were to die first. Is that not so?” For the first time he directly addressed the Warden of Dreams.
“Yes.”
The trees above their head burst into sudden flame.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
THE BRANCHES DID NOT BURN. Nor did the undergrowth. The fire spread slowly across the clearing until the whole of the contained space resembled a run-down fortification in a painterly vision of the Hells.
At its center were Jewel and the Warden of Dreams. For one long, drawn breath, no one moved. A terrible, silent repose gripped everything in the clearing except fire, and that fire crept up, at last, to enfold Jewel. Flames of orange and gold curled around her arms, falling to the ground like trailing sleeves; flames of crimson swirled around her chest, her hips, her legs. Snow could have made a dress like this—but perhaps not; it radiated heat and warmth.
The Warden raised his left arm; curled in his hand was the long handle of a many-thonged whip. He did not attempt to strike Jewel; that, she might have forgiven, in time. The whip seemed far more solid than the Warden; it traveled in a lashing snap toward Adam.
Adam did not move; Angel did. Where sword and supple whip clashed—briefly—Jewel heard the sound of metal meeting metal. The whip left a red welt across Angel’s cheek. It bled.
“Adam,” she said softly.
Adam did not answer. But she knew, here, that he must hold what the fire could not contain without destroying it: the winter, the cold, the memory of white. What she needed from the Oracle, she had
not yet received. And she had paid.
Demons had been sent to cut her pilgrimage short. She did not understand how the demons had arrived in that winter landscape when it had been made clear that Jewel herself could not return there without the Oracle’s aid; it made her uneasy. More than uneasy. Jewel had found passage because the Oracle had opened the way. She could not imagine that the Oracle had likewise offered passage to the demons.
But perhaps that was wrong. It had been clear from the beginning that Evayne a’Nolan—the only other seer Jewel had met—loathed the Oracle. Perhaps her tests were not the only reason.
She glanced, once, at Adam’s bent back and the placement of his hands, and passed her hand over his head; the flame did not touch him. Without Adam, she could not return to face the Oracle. Without the Oracle, the full potential of her power would never be realized. And without that, what slender hope Averalaan had against the coming of a god, was lost.
The Warden did not even have to kill Adam in order to achieve this, and seemed to realize it. Jewel was not terribly familiar with whips, but thought this one did not travel the way it would have had it been wielded by the merely mortal.
“Shadow, Night, Snow.”
Shadow sniffed, but obeyed her unspoken command; they all did. They surrounded Adam. Only Night gave him the side-eye and flexed claws.
“If you knock him over, you will be in more trouble than you have ever been in your entire life.”
Shadow and Snow hissed laughter, but that hiss sank into a growl as they turned their attention to the Warden. He lifted his hand; the whip faded.
“You will not bow to the inevitable,” he said to Jewel.
“I will bow to any inevitability that I see. Your fear is not my certainty.”
“You do not understand. Mortals oft dream of Kings and Emperors and distant, mortal heroes. They cannot conceive of beings that are not somehow an enlargement of their experiences and their brief lives. You have met your gods in the shallows of the Between; you have never met a god. You will,” he added.
But Jewel said, “The gods at the peak of their power couldn’t destroy the Cities of Man.”
Oracle: The House War: Book Six Page 81