She did not reply. She did not, Teller realized with mild surprise, like Jarven. After a pause, she continued. “If I wish to move instantly from the Isle to the hundred holdings, it is trivial. If I wish, however, to reach the borders of the city, it takes a more concentrated effort.”
“But you can do so?” It was Andrei who asked.
Birgide very seldom met Andrei’s gaze. Teller, watching, realized that she feared Andrei; she simply mistrusted and disliked Jarven. He understood that she considered Andrei a very real danger yet could not understand why. Nothing his investigations had turned up implied that Andrei was a threat.
“Yes,” she finally answered. “I can. If the forest desired it, the travel would extend in both directions; I could enter the city, and anyone in the city could enter—and become lost in—the forest. It is not what the Terafin wants. Not yet.”
Andrei frowned. “Yet?”
“The denizens of the forest speak a language I do not understand,” she said. “I cannot pick out the words or make sense of them in any way other than instinctively.” This was clearly not to her taste or, perhaps, her standards. “I have tried. My apologies, Andrei.”
Andrei’s smile was slight, but it was almost the opposite of Jarven’s in texture. “You have accepted an almost impossible task. I do not judge. I may marvel, I may honor, but I do not judge. Do you believe that the forest will change in intent?”
“No, not in intent. The forest doesn’t understand precisely what circumstances might cause them to absorb the mortal citizens of this land. But they understand that The Terafin would allow it.” She paused. “They sense a coming cataclysm. If it occurs, they will absorb every resident of the city who is capable of reaching the forest itself. Apparently, reaching it will not be a given.”
“Do they believe their intervention will be required?” It was Hectore who asked.
“Yes. I have asked them when, and they have given me no useful answer. They have attempted to answer,” she added, “and I have been unable to translate that answer in any meaningful fashion. But I have spent the past four days doing nothing but walking the boundaries of the forest where it overlaps with Averalaan.” Silence again. Longer and more troubled.
At length, she lifted her face and turned to Teller. “You are right-kin,” she said. “In the absence of the regent, you serve as Terafin to me, and I serve as your intermediary to the wilderness.”
Teller nodded.
“If there is a chance—any chance at all—that you can find The Terafin, aid her, or speed her on her way, it’s imperative that you do so, in my opinion.”
Jarven said, “Interesting. Why?”
But Teller lifted a hand, palm out, in Jarven’s direction; he did not look away from Birgide’s eyes. They were—or had been—brown at some point. They could almost achieve brown now, but brown was no longer their natural color. And at the moment, they were almost bloodred. Jester had mentioned this; Teller hadn’t seen it in action until now.
“The forest is not mortal. It is not, in any way, human. There are creatures within it who can adopt forms that are almost human—but not many—and most consider it a game, like a child’s tea party. Those that don’t consider it a game are almost always predators. The forest accepts them, of course; our forests contain both predators and their prey. To the wilderness, it is a simple extension of nature.”
Andrei stiffened then.
“I am Warden, but I am not Lord, not master. It is The Terafin’s will that keeps the city safe. I contain . . . what I can. I have that ability. But it is difficult, and it is becoming increasingly more so with the passage of days.
“If it becomes necessary to absorb the citizens of Averalaan in an emergency, the people who do escape into the wilderness will become a simple part of that wilderness—not guest, but prey, if they are not powerful enough. To the forest, this is natural. I will be able to contain some of the damage done—but not, and never, all. My will is not absolute in this regard; if I grant permission to enter, I cannot grant those who flee to the forest status. It is why I will not open those borders to our people unless they face certain death in the city’s streets.”
Silence. A long beat.
“You can open the borders?” Jarven was cold, stiff; he was the only person in the room who was willing or, perhaps, who felt it necessary to ask. Teller wasn’t certain why he bothered; he did not seem to be in a mood to annoy.
“Say, rather, that I can keep those borders closed.”
“Interesting. Is it becoming more difficult, or is it easier?”
Silence. Birgide’s gaze slid off the old ATerafin merchant to meet Jester’s. It was Jester’s nod, so slight it might have been imagined, that caused her to answer. “It is becoming both, at once. It is easier to maintain the security of the borders I have crossed myself, but there are new waypoints that are beginning to open. It is difficult to be certain that I am aware of all of them. I know, however, when something unusual crosses into the Terafin wilderness.” She fell silent. It was clear that she did not intend to continue.
Jarven opened his mouth; it was Andrei who interrupted before he could speak.
“Is this necessary?” The pointed question was aimed, in its entirety, at the Terafin merchant.
“Is what necessary?” The question was mild; the expression behind it, however, was the opposite of benign.
“You mean to ask the Warden what unusual means. You also mean to ask her what cataclysm the elders fear. These would—in other men—be worthy, perhaps necessary, questions. But you already know the answers.”
“Indeed.”
“Then what do we gain but the waste of the Warden’s time? She has spent the past four days in the wilderness, and if, as she contends, that wilderness’ overlap of our city is becoming more solid, it is in the wilderness that her duty now lies.”
Jarven said, “Jester, would you care to answer Andrei’s question?”
“No. I agree with Andrei. It is a waste of time. What the forest fears—what the Kings and gods fear—are the Sleepers.”
“And what does The Terafin fear?”
“I don’t know,” he replied. He was lying. Or perhaps he wasn’t; it was surprisingly hard to tell. “Maybe you could ask Finch when you see her.” He rose and bowed to Teller.
“The reason,” Birgide said, before he could leave the room, “that the disappearances within Averalaan have been far, far fewer than expected, given the population, is The Terafin. Even absent, it is her will that protects the city. But there are things stirring beyond Terafin’s forests, and I do not think her passive protections will hold. The House Mage stands guard, in a fashion—but I believe most of what he fights is part of the forest, in much the same way that street gangs are part of the city.”
“Most?”
“You are well aware that there have been demons; the demons are not part of the wilderness. Indeed, the wilderness, where it is powerful enough, rejects them utterly.” She bowed.
“Birgide,” Teller said.
“Right-kin?”
“Can the denizens of the wilderness be moved to protect the city from the creatures who will come through different forests?”
Silence.
Jarven’s expression was sour.
Jester exhaled; the Warden and the redhead exchanged a long glance. Jester’s hands danced in brief, quick den-sign. Only you.
But the gardener met his eyes and smiled. “That has been the subject of much discussion with those who are capable of it. Or inclined to it.” She turned to the door, and then turned back. “Thank you, Teller.”
• • •
“He did not dissemble at all? He made no pretense of either age or weakness?”
Jester sighed. Loudly. He had brandy in one hand and was massaging his forehead with the other. “I don’t understand why you don’t attend these damn meetings yourself. There aren’t many, they don’t last long, and you’ll get far more information that way.”
“I am not fond
of Jarven,” Haval replied.
“With the single exception of Finch—and possibly Hectore on a good day—no one is. He’s taken a dislike to Birgide.”
Haval threw Jester a withering glance.
“Birgide, however, trained under stoneface.”
“I would suggest you refrain from mocking Duvari, even in the forest.”
Which was, to Jester’s annoyance, where they currently stood. He didn’t care for the forest. He wanted to sit—or lie prone—in one of the chairs in the great room. Haval, however, seemed to like to wander among the foliage. Especially near the tree of fire.
Jester liked fire only when it was contained in a hearth—and he didn’t have to personally start it. But Haval could find the tree of fire. He could easily find it. It took Birgide, the Warden, longer to reach its bowers.
Jester sipped his drink, resenting the lack of the rest of the bottle—also in the great room. “How is it you can find this damn tree so quickly?” he muttered.
Haval’s smile was probably genuine. He didn’t answer. “Birgide is occupied?”
“Yes. And before you say it, I’ve told her to give herself a rest. She’s not listening. She is terrified of the future—the very near future—and she’s using every waking moment to somehow prepare for it. And frankly, there are far more than the average number of waking minutes in Birgide’s life at present.”
“You understand what Birgide is attempting to accomplish.”
Jester did.
“What is Jarven attempting to accomplish?”
And they were back to Jarven again. Jester was tempted to walk away.
“How much do you distrust him?” Haval asked.
“Completely.”
Haval merely waited while Jester sipped more of the brandy that was vanishing by the minute.
“I trust him to amuse himself. I trust him to play to win. But I don’t know how the game of amusing himself—and winning—plays out against cataclysm, demons, and gods. I don’t think he gives a rat’s ass about anyone else in the city. Oh, he might stop to offer Hectore a hand if Hectore falls while fleeing—but he’d walk over almost anyone else. I don’t know—I’ve never known—what that bastard wants. But it’s not what the rest of us want.”
“Do you think he would consort with—although I find that word harsh—demons? Do you think he would ally himself against The Terafin?”
And that was the heart of Jester’s fear. He didn’t know. He could make guesses. He could make educated guesses, based on Jarven’s history as ATerafin, and as the master of the Terafin merchant concerns. But he had an uneasy feeling that becoming that authority had been one of Jarven’s early goals. He was no longer certain that it would be enough.
And where gods walked, the game could change in disastrous ways.
“Jester?”
“You tell me,” was Jester’s bitter reply. “Not even Finch can say with certainty that he won’t. Finch assumes he’s coming to life because he’s guaranteed not to be bored.”
“You don’t agree.”
“No. I don’t think boredom has ever been his problem. He wants to be necessary. He wants to be at the center of events; he’s a spider. He’s not happy with a web that he can’t, in the end, own.”
“Yet he has never attempted to take the Terafin title.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“It has nothing to offer him.”
“Rymark appeared to be quite interested in it, for something that you claim is essentially useless.”
“Rymark was a pretentious, preening—” Jester spit. “Haval, I’m exhausted. I hate worry. I hate thinking at this time of day. I took your damn job. I agreed to be your errand runner. I agreed to file reports—although I would have refused that part if I’d realized how much like interrogation your ‘reports’ are, and how long they last. I didn’t agree to think all the damn time. I didn’t agree to answer your hundred questions before being dismissed.
“I don’t know what Jarven wants. And if I don’t, I can’t—” He pulled himself up short.
Haval was smiling. “Jarven was directly responsible for the formation, in the end, of the Astari. Jarven was responsible for much of the training grounds and equipment that the Astari use. It was Jarven who chose to utilize the servants’ halls in the palace, to cut through them in subtle ways, to allow the Astari to move—and move quickly—through Avantari.
“Jarven was responsible for the training of the Kings’ personal bodyguards. He was responsible for making adjustments to every small detail.”
“How do you know this?”
“Because I was there.”
“I need a drink.”
“You have one.”
“I need a bigger drink. This one’s almost gone.”
“You are correct, Jester. If you do not know what he wants, you will not be able to accurately assess what he might, or might not, do.”
“And you can’t tell me.”
“I am uncertain myself. Do not look at me like that; while I do not disdain lies, I choose to use them when they serve a useful function. Jarven has always been an annoyance. But he has been a competent, quick, unpredictable one. We have not always been allies. We have never truly been enemies. That may have come in time, but I disappointed him.”
“Disappointed him?”
“Cruelly, as I recall; it was the least . . . colorful word he condescended to use at the time.” Haval’s smile looked genuine, but it was Haval; all his lies sounded like truth. “I was a different man in my distant youth, and he had hopes of me.”
“That’s the first thing you’ve ever said that makes you seem . . .”
“Trustworthy?”
“Likeable.”
The grin deepened briefly, and then it was gone. “What happens to the wilderness if Jewel does not return?”
It was not a question anyone had asked. Jester was irritated. It was not a question that needed to be asked, the answer seemed so clear. Taking a page from Haval’s book, he failed to answer.
“It is a question that occupies the gods and the god-born with increasing intensity.” Haval looked up to the bowers of the burning tree. “I believe Birgide will soon be joining us.”
• • •
Birgide was not alone. By her side, delicate paws disturbing nothing, was a small golden fox. The Warden came to a stop five yards from the burning tree, her expression opaque. Haval stood beneath its bowers, and Jester, between them. The fox glanced up at Birgide as she came to a halt, following the direction of her gaze. He sauntered across Jester’s feet—stepping on both of them—and approached Haval Arwood.
Haval inclined his head, the gesture so respectful it put most formal bows to shame. “Eldest. Have you brought word?”
“You don’t require it.”
Haval smiled. “It is habit, no more. I may enter the forest on sufferance, but you are of it, and mortals are often blinded by hope.”
“It is not hope that blinds them, but greed. Are you a greedy mortal?”
“I have been called so, in my time,” was Haval’s grave reply. The fact that the fox was golden-furred and spoke perfect, crisp Weston, seemed to signify very little to the older man. Not for the first time, Jester wondered who Haval Arwood had once been. He’d done his own investigating, of course, and had hit seventeen hard walls, but enough information had come in for Jester to realize that Elemental Fashion was not a front. It was Haval’s home, and the business required the dedicated work of two people, not many.
“But not recently?” the fox chuckled.
“Recently I have been called far worse. My wife is not best pleased with me, at the moment.”
Foxes didn’t laugh. This one did—and the laugh was low, resonant, and very warm. “It is never a good idea to annoy the mate of a wise and powerful man. Mortals often forget that.”
“I assure you, Eldest, I have not.” He slid both of his hands behind his back in a loose clasp. “But greedy? Perhaps. I believe you k
now what I desire—and I believe very little of it is in your power to grant, no matter the sacrifice I might offer.”
The fox shook his whiskered face. “It will not do, Haval,” he said, as if speaking to a child—but a loved child, an indulged child. “If you truly believed that, you would not spend your precious, dwindling time in my company.”
“He lies all the time,” Jester said, before he could stop himself. There was something about the fox that implied comfort, belonging, safety. The latter was a pipe dream, of course. But it had never stopped anyone from yearning for it.
Birgide was watching the fox. She looked cautious, perhaps even nervous. Whatever Haval or Jester felt, the small creature clearly hadn’t turned its charm on the Warden. Or perhaps Birgide saw what neither Haval nor Jester could. She bowed, however, to the former.
“Duvari wishes to speak with you.”
“Of course he does,” Haval replied, sounding like a long-suffering parent. “We were, however, discussing Jarven, the other problem child.”
She was perfectly capable of controlling every aspect of her expression, but she was more at ease in this forest than she was in the manse. “He is so heavily girded by enchantments it is difficult to separate them,” Birgide said, “as you expected. He does not, however, bear the taint of the demonic.” She frowned. “I am not cognizant with all forms of enchantment, although I have been privy to many, many papers about magical theory.
“I believe that Jarven is more than cognizant, at this point.” She hesitated. Jester marked it. “In the four days since The Terafin’s visit, the focus of his enchantments have changed. On the day of the dinner, they were protective in nature. They protected privacy—it was a voluntary enchantment, like stones, but closer held—and protected him from magical attacks and controls. I think he has added a few.”
“Their nature?”
“I am uncertain. Enhancement, probably.”
“Of what?”
“He is too old for this fight,” she said bluntly. “I believe—and this is entirely the guess of a rank amateur—he is attempting to compensate for that. I cannot be certain; if I spent a week or two within the halls of the Order of Knowledge, I would have a far better answer.”
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