Haval felt his age keenly as he moved out of the protections granted him by Jewel’s tree of fire. Birgide’s side shadow, cast groundward by the boughs of fire-limned branches, flickered, longer, straighter, wider than his own. Possessed of neither Birgide’s mastery over, nor obsession with, the forest, he nonetheless respected both deeply.
It would devour her life. She understood and accepted that.
“What troubles you?” he asked.
“Finch has come to the forest.”
That was not generally considered a sign of trouble. Birgide’s tone, however, did not imply that she had fled here, seeking protection or safety. After a brief pause, Haval said, “She has not come alone.”
Birgide stilled.
Ah. “Is Finch’s companion Jarven ATerafin?”
“Yes.”
“I do not suppose you have the authority to refuse him entry?”
“It is . . . complicated. Yes, I have that authority—but he has come as Finch’s guest, and Finch is kin. The forest hears her. You might hear the voices of the ancient trees; they are raised in joy.”
“Joy?”
“She has come home, a place she does not visit often.” Birgide’s smile contained a brief flash of bitterness; she shook her head, and the bitterness gave way to rue. It removed years from her face, but years were not a concern of Haval’s.
Jarven was.
Birgide said, “You expected this?”
“It is difficult to have expectations of Jarven ATerafin. One is frequently disappointed in them. Has Duvari ever discussed Jarven with you?”
“No. But he has also refused to discuss you.”
“Perhaps it is because your control over your own expressions—facial, and body—are poor.” He spoke calmly and without disapproval. “It is clear that you can maintain that control, but it is not second nature.”
“No. In my defense, I am at home here.” She did not move. “We will not have long; the forest is willing to extend the length of the path Finch walks with her guest, but Finch will not be denied forever. What did you expect Duvari to say of Jarven?”
“It is what he will say—to you—in the wake of this visit that should be your chief concern. To be honest, inasmuch as I have that inclination, I believe he has merely been waiting for Jarven to die.”
His phrasing caused a frown to ripple up her face, where it remained, longest, in the line of her brow. “You feel that this will change.”
“You did not see Jarven in his prime,” Haval replied.
“You are not afraid of Jarven.”
“I am as afraid of Jarven as I am of tidal waves. I might leave the oceanside to avoid them, but I will never have mastery over them.”
She lifted a hand, waving the rest of his words away, her expression shuttered. Ah. “Silence is better than lies, here. It is not fear you feel.”
And at that, he bowed his head—not to Birgide, but to the trees. “Apologies, Elders,” he whispered, rising only when the breeze moved him to do so. “You are Warden of this unusual landscape. You understand what Meralonne APhaniel fights, on an almost daily basis.
“You understand that the partitions that separate this world from the one in which we live are all but crumbled ruins—or will be soon. And you understand that we—I—am mortal. The Terafin is mortal. Her forest is the seat of her power. Her den is the seat of her sanity.
“Do you honestly think that, as we are now, we have a chance of surviving what must be survived?”
“Yes.”
“Then Duvari has, in my opinion, failed you utterly.”
Voice flat, she said, “You want Jarven here.”
“No. I definitively do not want him here. If it were in my hands, I would have him removed from the Terafin manse entirely. It is not, however, in my hands. Even were The Terafin to return to resume her rule, it would remain outside of my hands. Given the nature of the manse now, he would have to be dead to be carried out.
“And yes, Birgide, perhaps the elders sense my anticipation. Perhaps they sense something akin to relief or even desire. You do not know what has occupied Jarven’s time in the past four days, and in the weeks that preceded them. I do. I wondered if this was, at last, the game he must lose or concede.”
“You think his presence here changes that?”
“I do. And Birgide, I do not know what his game is. I have almost never understood which of the many games he considers worthy and which he considers beneath him. But I know that the demons and their Lord are the opponents he has chosen. Twice now, he has been the detritus of their attempted assassinations.”
“And if they offer him a better deal?”
“A fair question. It is not my chief concern.”
She waited.
“Jarven will consider a better deal only after he has won a decisive victory in their eyes. It is not enough now to simply win; they must be forced to acknowledge their own loss. Another observer might consider only the stakes involved.”
“You don’t.”
“No. If he is acknowledged the greater power, he might consider a ‘better deal,’ as you put it. But I have seen enough of demons to know that that will never happen. They will not and cannot acknowledge a mortal as the greater power. Ah, forgive me. That is hyperbole. The demons that can would never be in a position to offer Jarven more than The Terafin can. The demons who are would perish before they acknowledged his victory.”
“And if you are wrong?”
He considered this. Considered, carefully, what he knew, what he’d learned, what he’d gathered in the spaces between words. “I may well be.” A name, carried by breeze, formed syllables in the air. “I believe the House Mage is almost upon us.”
• • •
Meralonne landed silently before the Warden; there he tendered her a perfect bow.
She returned that bow. “The eldest bids you to examine the fountain in the Terafin library,” she said, voice grave.
“I have examined it; does the eldest expect changes have been made?”
She did not reply, nor would she. She was Warden, but mortal.
“Which of the eldest?” he asked.
“The great tree.”
He felt a pang of something like joy; he could not be certain, it was so unusual. “I did not know that he had awoken.”
“I don’t think he’s fond of the fox,” Birgide replied. “They argued.” She hesitated.
“You are Warden here,” he told her, as if she were the newest mage-born student in a long list of less than impressive candidates. It was clearly a tone with which she was familiar, even comfortable. “As Warden, you need have no fear of my reaction or my opinion.”
“It is not fear,” Haval said, his voice modulated, his expression respectful but fearless. “You are House Mage. The Terafin accepted you. She granted express permission for you to reside in her rooms, and in this forest. But the forest is aware, APhaniel, that the time is coming when all permissions will be withdrawn; you will not be ally—you will be a different version of Darranatos, except in one regard: you will have stood beneath these bowers; you will have seen, and spoken with, the beings who gather here, and who will serve The Terafin until their death. The Warden exercises caution.”
“Ah. And should I accept the advice of an elder who will not risk giving me that advice in person?”
Haval Arwood did not blink, although he must have felt the tremors beneath his feet. “You are free, of course, to disregard it. Were it a matter of his own safety, and his alone, I am certain he would demand that you attend him. But he has chosen to treat you with the respect due a powerful outsider, which he fears you will become. It is diplomatic, APhaniel.” The tremors stilled.
Meralonne was genuinely surprised. He was aware that the tailor was accorded a position of respect by The Terafin, and he had often considered Haval observant, but it was clear that he had spoken those words to calm the eldest, not the mage who stood in front of him; clear, as well, that the words had been necessa
ry. “Respect is due the eldest,” he finally managed to say. “You are, of course, correct. He will not demand; he will invite. And I, who have not walked the forests in his company for endless centuries, would accept that invitation with genuine pleasure.” It was not a lie. And because he spoke truth, it was accepted.
Nor was it the reason, in the end, that he had come.
“Why have you allowed Jarven ATerafin entry?” He was no longer surprised when the Warden glanced at Haval and held her peace.
Haval spoke. “He comes as Finch’s guest. You are aware that there are two people in Terafin that The Terafin would trust with not only her life, but the lives of those she values.”
Was he?
“Finch has chosen. She is regent.”
“There are no regents in this forest.”
“And yet, APhaniel, she is demonstrably here. She will not tell the forest what to do, nor will she command the Warden.”
“And you?”
Haval’s smile was slight, almost rueful. “No, she will not command me. Given the state of my workroom, she would not trust me to master the organizational skills to become truly competent. Regardless, she has chosen, and the forest has accepted her choice. In general, the denizens of the wilderness seem remarkably unconcerned about the fate of the mortals beyond its borders. In their lack of concern, they allow decisions about the mortal realm to pass into her hands.”
“It will not always be so,” Meralonne’s voice was quiet, but not soft.
“No,” Haval agreed.
• • •
“Haval, I am delighted to see you taking fresh air,” Jarven said, when they at last came into view.
Finch was not delighted. She adored Hannerle, but she found her enigmatic and somewhat condescending husband more of a trial. She was surprised, however, to see Meralonne APhaniel, and her knees bent into the curtsy her skirts easily allowed before she could stop them.
This caused the ripple of a frown to tug at Haval’s lips and eyes. Meralonne, however, didn’t appear to notice. He was studying Jarven.
“I am less delighted to see you taking fresh air,” Haval replied. “Especially here.”
Jarven, Finch thought, was highly amused by this.
“I haven’t seen you look so hale in decades,” the tailor added.
“You so seldom accept the pleasure of my company, you have little with which to compare. Come, come. That expression will frighten Finch.”
“If she has worked under you for over half her life, that is impossible.”
“Is it? Perhaps we have discussed your previous career. Your previous vocation.”
Haval raised a brow. “You are still breathing.”
“True. Disappointed?”
“Frequently. But if it will stop this annoying prodding, I am not particularly disappointed to see you here now. As you are Finch’s guest, you are Finch’s problem.”
“I am capable of handling more than one task at a time.”
“When it suits you, and when you so choose, yes. You are incapable of setting aside specific tasks, when those tasks suit literally no one else. It was your besetting sin and your single weakness.”
Jarven’s brows rose, his lined eyes rounding in what Finch was almost certain was genuine surprise. The laughter that followed tinged the surprise; he was delighted by Haval’s very sour expression. She had always known that she would never completely understand Jarven.
“You have not changed, Haval. You have aged, but you have not changed. Tell me, have you spoken with the forest elders?”
“Frequently. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say they have spoken with me.”
“And if you have not offended them, it is unlikely that I will.”
“Have you suffered under the misapprehension that you and I are similar?”
“We are.”
Haval shook his head. “We are similarly competent, Jarven. But we are not similar men.”
“No. Had you not married, we might have been.”
Haval shook his head again. “It was not the marriage that changed me,” he said quietly. “It was the desire to be married. She offered a life I had never experienced, and I wanted that life.”
“And so you became a tailor.”
Haval nodded.
“You cannot tell me that the current difficulties do not engage you. You cannot tell me that you are not as fascinated, as interested, as I. You cannot tell me that your thoughts and your dreams and your focus have not turned toward the subject of legend, of myth. Oh, you can,” Jarven added, waving a hand. “But you will be lying.”
“I do not disdain a well-placed lie.”
“And?”
“It is irrelevant. I am engaged, but I am involved because I have something I fear to lose. No, it is more than that. I have something I wish to protect. It is the significant difference between us now. There is nothing you fear to lose.”
“Fear of loss dooms men to lives of servitude,” Jarven replied. He did not appear to be troubled by Haval’s words. Not immediately. “Were you always so judgmental?”
“I do not judge,” Haval replied. “I assess—as I was once instructed to do.”
Jarven’s laugh was bright again, but sharp, and Haval reflected its essence with the darker edge of his smile. “And what arrogant fool told you that?”
“The only man I had ever met I was willing to grant my unqualified respect.”
“Ah. And now?”
“Now it is qualified.”
Jarven shook his head. “We were both young men.”
“I believe you said at the time I was young, and you were in your prime.”
Jarven turned to Finch. “Haval puts me in mind of something. You said you wished to avoid the fate that befalls all of my protégés.”
She could feel the history—hidden, but deeply rooted—between these two men. She nodded.
“Haval was the most significant of their long number. He survived. Perhaps he will have something to teach you if you care to learn.”
Finch expected Haval’s expression to sour; she was surprised when it did not. He was, as he had said, assessing Jarven, his face a mask that allowed no expression to escape. It was the single thing about him that she found most difficult, this sudden absence of the warmth of human expression.
“Or perhaps, Jarven,” Haval surprised her—surprised them both—by saying, “She will have something to teach you. The games we once played we both survived. This is not that game.”
“No. It is a greater game—it is the game. All others were echoes—and at that, muted echoes—of this one.”
“You sound certain.”
“I am. I am, however, less certain of where we are heading.”
Birgide looked to Haval and then to Finch.
“No,” she told the forest’s Warden, “I’m not at all certain it is wise.”
“And yet you chose to invite him here under your protection?” It was not Birgide who asked, but Haval.
“The eldest asked it,” she replied.
“Of Jarven?”
“Of me.” Jarven was watching her with the same intense curiosity that had characterized his entry into this forest. “I do not understand everything that has occurred. Nor do I pretend to understand everything that will. I do not pretend to have control of Jarven. At my most certain, my most arrogant, I could not pretend that—it is the act of a fool.”
Haval nodded.
“I think it likely that the elders believe they will have control—but I confess uncertainty there, as well.”
“You are willing to trust Jarven, then.”
Finch shook her head. “It would only insult him. And even if I cared little for his temper and his ruffled pride, I would not. I believe that we won’t be his targets. We won’t be his opponents. He won’t kill us or harm us unless we stand in his way—but that’s always been his way. It was his way when The Terafin offered him the House Name. It was his way when she offered him the Merchant Authority.”
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“She did not offer that,” Jarven countered.
Finch ignored this. “People have accused Jarven of being monstrous. I even understand why. But I think—” She stopped, gazing at her feet, youth evident in the line of her chin, her bunched shoulders. She was, for a moment, the girl that Jewel had gone to such lengths to rescue in the streets of the hundred holdings.
She exhaled, lifting her chin. Dispelling the ghost of that waif, she said, “I think we need our own monsters.”
“I rather think we have monsters enough.” Haval’s voice was gentle.
“Not one of them,” she said, “could stand against Meralonne APhaniel and survive. Not one could stand against the demons APhaniel dispatched with contempt. Against the greater demons, we’re kindling.”
“You are wrong,” Meralonne said quietly, lifting his gaze for the first time from Jarven and Haval. “The Terafin could do what even I could not. Not yet.”
Not yet.
• • •
Haval spared the magi an obvious glance, no more. When the Warden had appeared, Finch had done two things. She had relaxed, and she had stopped walking. She did not, in Haval’s estimation, intend to continue.
Jarven would notice, of course. But Jarven noticed everything when he was of the mind to pay attention. He had become sloppier with age—but Jarven at his most sloppy was, and had been, a match for Duvari at his most focused.
I think we need our own monsters.
“Ironic, is it not?” Jarven said.
Haval’s nod was brief. “Neither of us chose to remain to oversee what we built.”
“No. And it changed. Of course it did. It changed enough that it would be a roadblock to those who knew its lay.”
“If I recall correctly, you considered the management of men—of people—beneath you at the time.”
“And you did not?”
“No.”
“And Duvari?”
“He is not a man you can easily manipulate. You can insult him, yes. But he has very little ego, very little vanity.”
“And only one ambition.”
Haval nodded.
“I would have thought you might choose another.”
“I have only once considered those you have chosen to groom worth that choice.”
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