Battle: The House War: Book Five (58 page)

“We are, indeed.”

“The sleep is not natural.”

“That is conjecture,” he replied.

“No, it is not.”

“And you have proof of that?”

“I
am
proof of that,” she replied, choosing words with as much care as she could, although she suspected it would avail her little, in the end.

“To what do you attribute the sleep?”

“The Warden of Dreams,” she replied. “Both of them.” She watched the length of the table as the words left her lips; she knew Teller was doing the same. Solran Marten stiffened. The Wayelyn’s stillness was more subtle, but it was evident. To her surprise, The Korisamis frowned, a slow, deliberate folding of brows and lips. He didn’t look surprised; he looked, for a moment, as if he were attempting to recall where he’d heard the words before.

The Garisar, on the other hand, merely looked annoyed. “Those words have no meaning to House Garisar. Explain them, if you intend to offer them as proof of your claim.”

“Very well; the explanation will of necessity be less than brief. I have been the subject of various rumors over the past decade. Those rumors reached their height after the funeral of my predecessor. At least one of those rumors is pertinent, because at least one of them is true: I am seer-born.”

Silence. She hoped the confession would buy her a few minutes; she was relatively certain it would not.

“Across the Empire one may find stories and legends that involve the seer-born; I believe that my predecessor had them unearthed from any number of sources shortly after my adoption into the House. They were not numerous, and they were not of particular use to my situation: what the seer-born in story claimed to have achieved, I have never mastered.

“The abilities of the seers in those stories are similar to the abilities of the most powerful of the magi. Some of my abilities were never the subject of stories. Suffice it to say,” she added, as The Garisar opened his mouth, “that both The Terafin of the time and the Kings were convinced that my gift was a true talent, and not a clever fabrication.

“I can see demons as demons, even when they adopt mortal guise. It is a natural gift; it does not require effort. I have honed instincts,” she continued, watching The Tamalyn, who appeared, to her surprise, to be listening intently—something that rarely happened in meetings of this nature. “And I have learned to trust them; instinct alone, however, is not proof of a talent, no matter how many times it has saved my life.”

“How has it saved your life?” The Tamalyn asked. His tone was entirely unlike The Garisar’s.

“I move before the dagger takes my eye out; I move before it pierces my heart. I fail to eat poisoned food, even if the poison is slow and subtle; I fail to drink poisoned liquid. Any of these skills could also be found among the
Astari
, but the
Astari
are not subject to full visions; they are not subject to true visions. I am.

“These occur, in strength, in dreams. You have heard of the dreaming wyrd?”

The Tamalyn nodded. “The three dreams.”

“Yes. I have done more than simply hear of them; I have lived them.”

Shadow started to growl, and Jewel grimaced. “A moment,” she said, rising swiftly. The cat was bristling.

“What,” she said, voice low, “is the problem?” She had almost forgotten the cat was in the room, he’d been so still and silent.

“I don’t
trust
them.”

She prevented herself from shoving her hair very forcefully out of her eyes. “You don’t trust
anyone
, Shadow. They’re not demons; they’re not assassins. They’re not going to kill me in this room.”

He hissed.

“Where did you come by your cat?” The Tamalyn asked. Jewel jumped; he was standing not two feet away.

Shadow hissed more loudly. Jewel, embarrassed, returned to her seat; The Tamalyn did not, although his attendant—Michi?—was almost drilling holes between his shoulder blades with the intensity of her stare.

“My deepest apologies,” she said to the table at large as she rejoined it. “I encountered Shadow and his two brothers during my absence from the House. They followed me home.” She inhaled. “I spoke of true visions and the dreaming wyrd not to touch upon aspects of myth or legend, but to emphasize the delivery of those visions: they came to me—and come to me—in dreams. The visions that come are not clear, precise models of the future; they are not easily untangled until after the fact. It was one such vision that necessitated my absence from the House at a critical time.”

“The Terafin was aware of the reasons for your departure,” The Kalakar asked.

“Of course. She was my Lord. She understood—as we all did—that a war would be fought in the South; she understood that I had a part to play in its outcome, although neither of us could be completely certain what that role would be.”

“You did not endear yourself to the Commanders by your absence,” The Kalakar noted, although she was smiling. The Berrilya, notably, was not.

“No. But my part was not a part that could be played by armies.”

“What part, then?”

Jewel stared at the tabletop. “It involved a walk on roads long closed to us, and a longer walk through the desert at the heart of the Dominion. I traveled with the Arkosan Voyani, and at their side, I saw a city—a literal city—rise from the desert sands. It was smaller than Averalaan, but larger than
Averalaan Aramarelas
, and it was whole. The walls could withstand any attack.”

“Any?”

“Any. The city was built—and buried—in an age when gods walked the world.”

* * *

The Tamalyn came back to the table; Shadow followed him. The great cat also wedged his head between The Tamalyn and his Council adviser while Jewel tried not to grind her teeth.

“I feel we wander far afield,” The Garisar said pointedly. “And you add ludicrous claim to claims that were already suspect.”

“I am interested,” The Tamalyn replied, with more force than was his wont.

The Wayelyn likewise concurred, but more lazily, and with a good humor that was entirely unwarranted. It predictably annoyed The Garisar. It reminded Jewel of long House Council sessions.

“We may discuss the city at a later point,” she told them both. “The Garisar is not incorrect. But if the city is not directly part of the explanation, I feel it will become relevant in the future.” She looked across the table to The Kalakar. “In your sojourn in the Dominion, you saw the work of demons—and the work, if I am not mistaken, of gods.”

“Of a god which we will not name here.”

Jewel nodded. “Some part of that work affected the underpinnings of the dreaming.”

“Pardon?”

“If dreams are not a literal place—and they are not—they are nonetheless the source of my strongest visions. Something within the dreaming itself—when I dream—has the force of reality. I will not make the same claim for any other dreamer; I would not hesitate to make it of any other seer.”

“Of which you are the only known sample.”

“One of two,” she replied.

“The other?”

Jewel shook her head. “It is not relevant. What is relevant is that the quality of the dreaming changed markedly after the war. I believe it was changing while part of the war was being fought—the magic required to move armies to the cradle of Averda was not mortal magic. I do not have access to the reports of the magi, but I have, in my service, Meralonne APhaniel, who served as the leader of the magi under the Commanders.”

“The reports of the magi are not yet fully assimilated, and no consensus has been reached about the accuracy of their . . . guesswork.” The Berrilya glanced at The Kalakar; she failed to return what was almost a glare.

“I trust Member APhaniel. If you consider the information suspect, you will likely consider my explanation suspect as well.”

“Indeed.”

There were days when she understood the animosity that existed between House Kalakar and House Berrilya. Exhaling, she glanced past him; Solran Marten was watching Jewel as if there were no others present. As bardmaster, Solran understood how to feign delight, irritation, or uncertainty; she knew when to play at politics and when to refuse the game. Jewel found her unwavering attention disturbing.

“The visions are stronger than they once were. They are more solid; they feel more real.”

“This does not address the question of the sleepers.”

“It does. The visions of my early years were transmitted through the dreaming. There are those who, without the talent which has been both bane and gift, were still subject to the dreaming wyrd.”

“That is conjecture and story,” The Berrilya said, clearly less than impressed.

“I have met at least one in my time in House Terafin; he did not lie. Those visions might be sent by the gods; it is hard to say. Think of the dreaming as if it were the edge of the Between.”

Silence. It was more thoughtful, now. If The Berrilya wished to deny—loudly—the existence of the dreaming as a reality, he could not likewise deny the existence of the Between. “I would be interested to hear what the Exalted have to say about your designation.”

“It is my belief they would concur.” She wanted to stand; to stand and pace the length of the table, as if thoughts, like caged beasts, needed room to move, to breathe, to stretch. “The dreaming wyrd, and the unpredictable visions of seers, come when we touch the dreaming in our sleep. And it is through the dreaming that the sleepers within the city were entrapped.”

“By the Warden of Dreams?” The Tamalyn asked. He was actually attempting to take notes.

“Yes. I do not understand how, or why—nor did he volunteer the information—but he derived some power from their capture and their presence. To allow them to wake was to lose that power.”

“You found them while you slept.”

She smiled. “Yes, Tamalyn. While I slept, I walked in the landscape of a very vivid dream, and I met both the sleepers and the Warden. I was asleep at the time, and I could not be easily woken.”

“Could you be awakened at all?”

“Levec was summoned. He has had some small success within the Houses of Healing. But his intervention was not necessary, in the end. I woke from sleep at my own desire, although not at the time of my choosing; time passes differently between the waking world and the dreaming one.”

“And the sleepers?”

“It is my next endeavor, although it is fraught: I will attempt to wake them.”

Solran Marten stood, drawing every eye at the table. “May I ask, Terafin, how you intend to do so?”

“I intend to sleep,” she replied evenly.

“And you may now do so in safety?”

“Yes.”

“But if the Warden is no longer a threat, surely the sleepers would now wake on their own?”

This was not the direction she had hoped the discussion would take; it was hard to control all of its many strands when she herself had so few answers. “They are trapped in the dreaming. He does not hold them there, but they have been long enough away that they cannot easily find their way back.”

“And you, Terafin, could.”

“Yes. I am seer-born. I understood that the dreaming
was
a dream; I understood, as well, that it was real. Death in the dreaming is death.”

“You understood this how?”

“I could see, Bardmaster.”

“And you can see the dreamers.”

“I believe, if I search for them, I can do exactly that.” She met the bardmaster’s gaze; it was steady, unblinking—almost an accusation. Yet it held no animosity.

“Forgive me,” Solran said, to the Council table at large, “but I must now ask: Did you banish the Warden of Dreams from the dreaming in the same way you banished the wild water and the wild earth?”

You cannot avoid this,
Avandar told her.
But I believe, were it not for the bardmaster and The Wayelyn, you might have succeeded in postponing the inevitable; you have given The Ten much to digest.

“No.”

“No?”

“The earth and the water are not the Warden of Dreams. They are wild, yes, but they are forces that can, with effort, will, and appeasement, be used. They are
very
seldom used by mortals, if at all.”

“Yet you ordered them to leave, and they obeyed.”

Avandar was right. She wondered, idly, if she would have to give up the House to preserve it. It was a thought that she could not think in any other way; if she drew too close to it, it cut her with seven different kinds of guilt. The Ten would not easily surrender Terafin to the Kings if the Kings demanded it; they would, however, surrender Jewel if she were not the titular head of her House.

“Yes.” She wanted to rise. She wanted to push herself up out of this confined chair, and this confining role—but she could only afford to do that if she was prepared to leave the Council chambers; she could not, by half measure, indulge in restless anger among these men and women.

“Do you understand that your commands were heard across the city?”

“Across the Isle.”

“No, Terafin. Your voice reached across the bay. Bards cannot choose, at the distance your voice extended, such a wide audience. They cannot choose even a handful of strangers, in disparate locations, across the hundred holdings. A bard might speak in rapid succession to strategically placed people—but they cannot speak in such a fashion to people with whom they are unfamiliar; their audience would have to be in line of sight.