“Ah. You refer to Finch, of course.”
Haval nodded. “I approve of Lucille.”
“Lucille?”
“Yes.”
“She could not do what I have done.”
“No. You did not groom Lucille; you accepted her. She is the only person, until Finch, to whom you have ceded any part of your territory.”
“But only the boring parts.”
“Indeed.”
“I do not foresee many boring parts, in this. But there is a curious symmetry in it. Your protégé—”
“The Terafin is not my protégé.”
“—Is more than mortal, in the eyes of the wilderness; she is a force to be reckoned with—if not now, then in future. And you are stubbornly mortal, stubbornly mundane, but you are also, and have always been, a force to be reckoned with. But I? I am fenced in by a stubbornly mortal—and perhaps worse, stubbornly loyal—woman, the age of your protégé, and it is I who reach for the numinous, the wild. And we four will be here.”
“I am not of Terafin,” Haval said mildly. Ah, Jarven’s eyes. His face. He did not need to stand beneath burning bowers; his gaze was alight, unblinking. He had found some way into terrain he had not entered since Haval himself was young.
And Haval felt a twinge of nostalgia, even of, if not joy, enjoyment nonetheless. Only a fool would have missed this man, but all men were capable of folly.
Jarven glanced at Finch. “We are to wait?”
Finch looked to Birgide. Birgide nodded. To Jarven she said, “Do not leave the path without escort. The forest is not entirely safe.”
“It is not secure?”
The gardener smiled. “It is secure; it is not safe.” She turned fully to Meralonne APhaniel. “The eldest invites you to attend him at your earliest convenience. He, too, would take joy from your company.”
“I doubt that,” Meralonne replied.
Haval winced but said nothing.
“I merely mean I am not yet what I was. And if it is information about my ancient kin that he seeks—and there was affection between them—I do not have it. I do not understand how Shianne came to be here. But she is companion to The Terafin, and The Terafin is neither ancient nor wild. She will protect Shianne.”
“Nonetheless,” Birgide continued, “he wishes your company.”
The mage bowed then. When he rose, he said, “ATerafin.” He spoke to Jarven. “It is very easy to become lost in this place. Be wary, if that is in your nature.”
The fox appeared only after Meralonne had taken his leave.
• • •
For a moment, if Finch ignored his unnatural coloring, she could believe him to be the animal he appeared to be. She knelt immediately; he padded over to her lap and leaped delicately into her arms. She then rose, as if she were a living throne or pedestal. The fox was not like the cats; he was politer, softer spoken, and less inherently violent. But she thought him the greater danger, in the long run. And, as the cats, he was neither her responsibility nor her concern.
“You fear him,” the eldest said, glancing at Jarven.
“Yes,” she said, without regret or embarrassment. “I do.”
“And yet you consider him kin.”
Did she? “He is ATerafin, as am I.”
“He is not ATerafin as you are,” the fox replied, voice grave, eyes wide, round, unblinking. They felt, for a moment, like Haval Arwood’s eyes when he subjected someone to the whole of his ferocious observation; she was certain they missed nothing.
“No. But he is nothing at all like me.”
“He is far more like you than I am.”
She nodded. “I believe he wishes he weren’t.”
“He has never been fond of being discussed in the third person,” Jarven interjected.
“No?” the fox seemed genuinely interested in this claim, but he shook his head and turned once again to Finch. “Where was I before I was interrupted? Ah. Yes. You believe he wishes he were less like you?”
Finch hesitated. She had trained with, worked with, Jarven for all of her adult life; she could lie easily, and in truth no longer considered flattery a lie so much as a social necessity, an expedient that manners often required, if not outright demanded.
But she was aware, as the fox regarded her, that her words had a weight here that was, that must be, entirely different.
“I believe,” she therefore said, “that he does not consider himself at all like me, except in the sense that we are both people, both mortal. I am ATerafin, as is he, but he would not have noticed me, would never have become mentor to me, were it not for the command of The Terafin.
“He could not disobey a direct command, and I believe he was given exactly that. Among Jarven’s strengths is his ability to make do; to work with what is in front of him. He may dream of different clay—or wood, or metal—with which to craft, but he will make the most of, the best of, what he is given.”
“He does not complain?”
She was surprised into a quiet laugh. “He’s Jarven. Of course he complains. I am not what he was in his distant youth.”
“I should hope not,” Jarven said.
“I have none of his ambition, none of his fire, none of his aggression.”
“Ah,” the fox said, voice soft. “A pity, really. But you have spoken only of the differences. If he wishes he were less like you—”
“Less mortal,” Finch said quietly. “Less fragile. He is, as I said, practical. He takes what he has at hand, and he builds with it, plays with it, games with it. But neither Jarven nor I were talent-born. Neither he nor I were scions of wealth, born to power, born of it.
“What you might offer him is a new material to work with or a new, and better, hand with which to play.”
The fox nodded genially; he was not done with Finch. “Will you join us?” It was only barely a request.
But Finch shook her head.
“That is foolish,” the fox told her.
“Yes, I know. But it is also wise.”
“Oh?”
“Jarven does not forgive men—or women—who see him in any state of weakness he does not voluntarily expose. Lucille might be forgiven, but I? I would not.”
“Ah. Then I will tell you this, Finch ATerafin, sister to our lord and much beloved, you are both right and wrong. He is, at times, uneasy in your presence; it is true. But it is not the uneasiness that comes from wariness; he does not expect that you will, like his previous students, attempt to unseat him or harm him. He is accustomed to caution from the powerful—and ambition, it is true—and he has waited for you to join their ranks.
“But, of course, he is wise in a fashion. Waiting, he also knows that you will not, not unless commanded to it. And The Terafin would never make that command. No. His difficulty lies with what you have already said. Can you not see why?”
She frowned.
“If I may, Eldest?” Haval now interrupted.
“Councillor,” the fox replied, condescending to nod in the tailor’s direction, as he had not yet done in Jarven’s. The tailor was the only man present who was not ATerafin, and who Finch was certain would never become so.
“He would never have chosen you,” Haval said quietly. “You have surmised this, and I concur.”
Finch nodded.
“And, Finch, you are, in the end, the pupil who has shown the most potential. If you desired the House, it would—with some effort—be yours. Jarven is certain of it. And he is correct.”
Her frown deepened and then cleared. “He’s uneasy because he made a mistake.”
“Yes. And now he must wonder: how often has he made similar mistakes? How often has he chosen the wrong pupils?”
“It is more than that,” the fox said. “Jarven understands that mortals want power. He understands that every living being wants power. He believes that those without the will or the strength or the cunning will never achieve it. You remind him, uncomfortably, that those with the potential might not have the desire; were it not
for The Terafin’s need, you would never have become what you are.
“And that is uncomfortable. If he is unscrupulous, he has scruples. You have been waiting, yes? For the thing that will test you, in his eyes. For the event that will start the schism, that will pit him against you. But you have failed to understand, Finch: so has he. He did not decide on a whim to destroy what he had built—”
Jarven said, in a tone of voice Finch had never heard him use, “Enough.” The word was soft but sharp, it was cold; it contained every threat that a man of power with few scruples could bring to bear. Jarven meant to be obeyed. Here. In The Terafin’s wild forest.
Her arms had tensed, tightened; to an outsider she might have looked like a woman whose visceral maternal instincts had reared their collective heads and was consequently protecting her child, making of her arms the only certain safety the child could have. And none of these things would be true. She wanted to apologize for Jarven, to beg the eldest’s forgiveness, to placate—as she had learned to do—without surrender.
She could not, because she understood that Jarven had been pushed as far as he could be pushed. He would never accept protection from her, and he would, in the ice of his rage, be . . . humiliated. She wished Lucille were here, because Lucille could be a mother hen. But she suspected that Lucille would have withdrawn in tense, worried silence.
She glanced at Haval, trying in a subtle way to restrain the fox, for all the good that would do. Haval’s face was devoid of expression; he watched Jarven. His hands were by his sides, and he was utterly still.
“Councillor?” the fox said. Finch would have to ask him why he referred to Haval that way—but later. She was more afraid for Jarven than she had ever been, wishing desperately that she had refused his request. Their request.
“There is fire in him,” Haval replied.
The fox lifted his head thoughtfully. “Yes.”
“It has been Jewel’s way,” Haval continued, “to respect and shelter the dangerous—no matter the circumstances of their birth—when they will tolerate or allow it.”
“Indeed,” the fox replied, lifting his nose. “Woven into our Lord’s complicated commands to those of us who obey her is the daughter of the Lord of the Hells. Ah, Finch. You’ve met her, I see.” He continued to speak to Haval. “And if our Lord is willing to succor and grant freedom to one such as that child, she should not object to Jarven.”
Finch said nothing for one long minute. Muscle by muscle, she could see Jarven relax.
“I wished to hear the Councillor’s advice. Advice,” he added, “does not have to be taken. Surely Jarven has taught you that. The Warden does not desire this, and she has made it known. She could interfere. She has earned that right. But she, too, listens to the Councillor. And, Finch, she has listened to you. She has listened to your Jester. She has made her decision, although she teeters on its edge even now.”
“Very well,” Haval said. He slid his hands behind his back and inclined his chin in the fox’s direction. “Although you know what my advice will be.”
“I thought mortals liked to hear their own voices.”
“Ah. I am not among them. If I can hear my own voice, so can others.”
The fox chuckled. “Very well. Your intent is very hard to divine. I can hear rustles, whispers, hints of motion, in every other person present—even your Jarven. But you are so self-contained, so absent of the things we read and hear, you are almost a shadow.”
Jarven burst out laughing; his laughter broke the peculiar, strained tension, although he was the only one to be so highly amused.
“He is amused at your expense?” the fox asked.
“Frequently. If you wish my opinion, explicitly stated, we want him. But if he does not meet your criteria, we want him anyway. He is old, yes—and his age is not feigned, although he accentuates it when it suits him. Give him back even a portion of his youth, and he may be the decisive factor in any victory we have. I cannot see how,” he added. “And perhaps it is sentiment or nostalgia that clouds my vision.”
“Sentiment in the wild is a dangerous vice,” the fox replied.
“It is frequently dangerous in the mortal world as well. But it is my suspicion, Eldest, that the sentiment that can and does survive is therefore of incalculable value to you and your kind.”
Silence then.
The fox grew heavy, suddenly, in Finch’s arms. The motion of the tinkling leaves above their heads stilled; the entire forest seemed to be holding the whole of its collective breath.
It was Jarven who broke the silence; he chuckled. “Be wary,” he said, lifting his head to glance around the canopy of branches, silent and still. “Of dangerous old men. We are few indeed. You will not harm The Terafin’s Councillor.”
“Do not,” Birgide said, her lips almost white, the left side of her jaw twitching, “be so certain of that.”
“I am certain,” Jarven replied, shrugging. “I have considered killing Haval three times in our life together. I did not do so, although there was some pressure toward the end. His value to me outweighed his danger. The wilderness, the ancients, prize danger as value.”
“They prize their dignity, their pride, and the respect they are due a great deal more than Jarven ATerafin ever has.” Birgide spoke through clenched jaws.
“And Haval has injured their dignity? I see.”
Throughout, Haval said nothing.
The fox did not grow heavier in Finch’s arms—but he didn’t grow any lighter, either. Finch took this as a hint and put him down. “You will not come?” he asked again, although he did not look back at her, certain of her answer.
“Jarven is like the forest. It is never wise to injure his dignity.”
“Very well.” The fox shook his head at Jarven. “You will be far more comfortable in the wilderness than our Lord; it is savage in a fashion that you understand instinctively. The rest? Just details.”
Finch watched them go. They stepped off the path, and the diamond trees, glittering and beautiful and hard, seemed to absorb even their voices.
20th day of Morel, 428 A.A.
Terafin Manse, Averalaan Aramarelas
Only when they were ensconced in the West Wing again did Finch speak to Haval. He was unwilling to speak in the great room, and instead retreated—with tea—to his workroom. There was, of course, only one chair fit for use; it was Finch who cleared cloth and beads from another. She could not understand how Haval could work in this space, it was so chaotic. Yet he seemed to know exactly where, in this chaos, to find what he wanted.
In general, Finch was content to let Haval open any discussion he had requested. Today, however, she was not. “You did that on purpose.”
He was too tired to use his face as a mask; it was blank, his eyes fixed on a point just past Finch’s left shoulder. The door, perhaps.
“You speak of my comment about sentiment?”
“Not specifically that comment.”
“What would you have had me do? I have not seen Jarven this impatient, this prickly, for decades. Literally decades.” He hesitated, and then shrugged. “This is possibly because I have assiduously avoided him for decades.”
Finch exhaled. “I have only known him for two. Less than two. And yes, he is . . . restless.”
“Tell me, Finch, would you threaten the elders?”
Since the answer was obvious, she waited.
“Jarven did.”
She knew.
“I do not threaten the wilderness. I do not trifle with threats.”
“Trifle?”
He did not elaborate. “You are certain the Merchant Authority is secure?”
She nodded.
“Good. If it depends on Jarven’s time or attention, you will lose it.”
There were many questions Finch wanted to ask, but Haval hadn’t answered the first one; she strongly suspected that he would treat the others in the same way. He was not unlike Jarven, in that regard. But he was unlike Jarven in substantial ways.
“Not more so than usual, no.” After a pause, she added, “I’m worried about Lucille.”
“Were you Jarven, I would accuse you of attempted diversion. You are not. You are worried about her.”
“She cares about Jarven. She always has. I think she’s more afraid for him than of him, even now. I’ve only seen her angry at him once—truly angry.”
“After the first assassination attempt?”
She nodded. She accepted that Haval knew things. How was an issue, but for the moment, it was not relevant. Later, it would have to be.
“She has seen trade wars from the inside,” Haval continued. “Given her role in the Merchant Authority, she has no doubt seen to the removal of bodies; it is quite possible she has even been a target. Her own survival is not in question—and in the end, in her mind, neither is Jarven’s, no matter how she frets at him. But yours? Yours is uncertain. I have no doubt she has done everything within her power to protect you; I have no doubt that some of that involved her personal funds, things that could be entirely left off the books.
“But you are not Jarven, and Lucille, I am certain, feels that only the good die young. It is not,” he added, “true, of course.”
“Of course.” Finch thought of Duster. “Can you control him at all?”
“No.”
“I can’t, either.”
“No, of course not. You come closer, Finch, than any before you. Closer, in my opinion, than Lucille. In his fashion, he respects you—but he doesn’t know what to do with you, beyond what he has done. He was angry when the assassination attempts began. His overweening arrogance aside, he understands that protection requires that he be lucky one hundred per cent of the time; they only need to be lucky—if that is the word for it—once.
“His anger surprised me.”
“Truly?”
Another wry smile. “Truly. He has not groomed you to be a pawn; he has no need of them. He has groomed you to be a ruler.” Before she could speak, he lifted a hand. She stopped, closing her mouth. “What do you think a ruler is? You, of all people, must not confuse it with the pomp and circumstance of wealth. Wealth accrues to the powerful, should they seek it. Jewel tolerates the pageantry but does so poorly. She would not be a power were it not for her talent-born gifts.”
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