“And she knows this because you told her.”
Meralonne was silent.
“You do not seek your herald.”
“No.”
“We will not attempt to harm him.”
“No.”
“I ask a third time, what do you intend? In the heart of the city across the water, I see a token that I have not seen since I was young, and it is worn, not by one of the White Lady’s people, but by a mortal.”
Meralonne gazed at the eldest in silent wonder. “How powerful has your Lord become?” The words were a whisper; there was no fear in them.
“I do not understand the question,” the eldest replied, evincing no confusion whatsoever. Very well. “Why?”
“It is no concern of yours,” Meralonne replied, his voice soft, his sword’s light brighter, harsher. “I intend her no harm. I intend none of the mortals harm—”
The eldest frowned then, reaching out with one arm to touch the trunk of his body. “What is he doing?” He spoke names that had no analogue in language, and one of the arborii rose at once. She did not approach her Lord, but left, her feet quick and light as she gained the wooded circumference of the clearing and disappeared.
“My apologies, Illaraphaniel. I am unaccustomed to the speed at which the living move, it has been so long since I last truly walked. Why does a mortal bear that token? You cannot think it will protect her?”
“Eldest,” he replied, “you ask a question for which I have no answer; do you not think I have not asked it of myself? Why ask me what I intend when you know what the answer must be? I am not mortal. My context does not define me as it defines those who are. The life I build does not replace the life from which I was exiled, and no desire that grows from this shadow of life can equal or overcome the truth of what I was born to be. I am among the firstborn of the White Lady’s Princes. I am the White Lady’s. I am her hunter, her prince. There is nothing, no one, I have loved so much as she.
“I have listened to my brothers, buried in sleep decreed by gods who intended to abandon these lands permanently. I have yearned for the youth in which we faced gods in the wars that shaped and broke continents. I can see them—I have always been able to see them—if I but close my eyes. It is at their side that I belong.
“I have fought demons, at the behest of Sigurne Mellifas, the mortal who wears that token. It is only in combat with them that I remember my truest self. Do not mistake fondness for something it is not.”
The eldest nodded. “Just so. Do you wish us to release the heralds?”
The sword rose. “What have you done?” The words were visceral, the rage at the presumption of this being, instant.
“Our Lord does not wish the heralds to find their Lords,” he replied. He gestured. To his hand, ancient of the woodlands, came a thing that shocked the mage.
It was a sword.
A red, burning blade.
• • •
All voices died in the clearing, and with them, all movement. The arborii had fled, withdrawing into their bodies as if they were mortal children fleeing for their lives while their father bought them time.
The swords did not clash. Meralonne stared at the blade itself. It was not, as it had appeared, a Kialli weapon; it was a thing of fire. Fire, he thought, and a metal that was nothing so mundane as mortal steel.
“The burning tree.”
“Even so. It is not the way of my kin to fight armed with such weapons, but some of us have been . . . learning. It is enlightening.”
“Learning.”
The eldest nodded.
“How?”
“I have been asked, as a condition of such lessons, to hold and keep my peace.”
“An oath given to a mortal.”
The eldest did not respond.
And Meralonne, who served as guardian, had not seen. He lowered his sword. “You have not harmed my herald.”
“No. But he, alone of the four, has not come through the wilderness to reach you, which is unexpected, although perhaps it should not have been. He has lived in long exile, as have you. And as you, he has used his particular gifts to grant mortals knowledge.” The red sword vanished.
The blue sword likewise disappeared. Meralonne did not answer.
“I ask an unprecedented fourth time, what do you intend?”
“I? What I have always intended: to return to the White Lady.”
“We do not hear her voice,” the eldest said.
“I know. But she lives, still.” He exhaled. “Your Lord seeks her in the wilderness, even now.”
“Yes. She has found Shianne. She will find the White Lady. You cannot aid her in any way on the path she has chosen to walk; even were you not so diminished, you could not. The path, to you, is closed, and will remain so while the Lord of the Hells lives.”
He did not reply; he knew. Of course he knew.
“You have no shield, Illaraphaniel.”
“No.”
“How, then, will you stand against the Lord of the Hells?”
Meralonne did not answer. He longed for two things, and one—ah, one was his pipe.
“Your fire is not her fire,” the arborii said, as if he could perceive the odd, out-of-place desire. “And her fire is not their fire.” He turned, once again, to the trunk of the tree he had shed, touching its bark with the flat of both palms, his back momentarily exposed.
The branches that sheltered them from sunlight descended slowly from a great height. They moved as limbs of trees should not be able to move without breaking. “We cannot remake what was lost and sundered,” the eldest said. “That is not our skill.”
“Did your lord know that the heralds would come?”
“She did not speak of it to us. But she is as she is. If you asked her, she would tell you that it was coincidence.” His smile was slight, almost affectionate. “It is a mortal word: coincidence.”
The branches had finally reached Meralonne’s eye level; there, they stopped. He frowned, regarding the leaves. They reflected sunlight as they moved, causing light to dance. They were not, however, leaves of silver or gold, and certainly not diamond. He had not seen these leaves in this forest, or any other he could recall.
“What is this?” he asked softly, although his gaze did not stray from the finely veined leaves.
“There is metal here, in the very trees; there is fire in their veins; there is life in both things. You have traversed the Stone Deepings; you thought to do so again, ere the end. I cannot and, therefore, cannot tell you what you might find there, although I hear the voice of stone from this remove.”
“There is stone on the Isle,” Meralonne replied. “Both in the mortal world and in the hidden. Perhaps it sings.”
“Regardless, what I offer is not what the Stone Deepings might offer, and in the Green Deepings, you will not find what you seek.”
“Do not bring the Deepings here,” Meralonne whispered. “She is Sen, yes, but she is only Sen, and the price the Deepings exact, she will not pay.”
The arborii lord seemed almost offended. He did not deign to reply, and the moment passed. “Once,” he said, “I would have said I understood your kin. I would have said I understood you. But you are grown strange, Illaraphaniel. Perhaps the cause is exile.” The branches shook slightly. “But I forget myself.
“Take the leaves, if you will. They will not magically become what you require. We do not work metal here, except perhaps gold, for it is soft and malleable. Even if we did, the arts you require are not arts that we practice; not yet, and perhaps not ever.”
Meralonne reached up to touch a leaf with the tips of his fingers. He could not speak for one long moment, and when he did gather his voice, it was rough with things unsaid. “Why?” he asked.
“It is a gift, Illaraphaniel, for you have fought the dead in our stead while we slept. Ours have never been the warrior’s arts, and the dead no longer care for the arts that are ours.”
“It is not the way of my kin—or yours—to give
gifts.”
“No, perhaps not. But it is the way of our Lord, and we would do her honor.”
“And will this metal be free of your influence?” He lowered his hand.
“It will be of the forest, of the wilderness—but Illaraphaniel, so are you. What you forge of it will decide how that connection is expressed. I would not forge a weapon of it,” the eldest added. “I have come to understand something of your weapons. It would not serve you well, in that regard, should we come face-to-face upon a future field of battle; it will not harm us.
“But it is not sword you lack; it is shield. When the branch is sundered from the tree, it dies.”
“You are not a tree.”
“I am the essence of trees,” the eldest replied.
Meralonne bowed. He bowed low. He did not speak and did not rise until bidden. When he did, he raised not one hand, but two, understanding the eldest’s intent.
The whole of the branch fell into his upturned hands.
“The rest, I fear, is in your hands.”
Meralonne nodded, listening. The branch itself was voiceless, silent save for the tinkling of metal leaves as they made contact with each other. “No one, Eldest, has borne such a shield.”
“No one,” the eldest replied, “has borne your burden. What obligation we owe you for your service to our Lord, we have paid. And now, Illaraphaniel, I would walk. You must find your smith.”
21st day of Morel, 428 A.A.
Avantari, Averalaan Aramarelas
Birgide Viranyi could travel to the palace without fear of mortal interference. The roads and paths between the Terafin manse extended, now, to the Courtyard Garden; Duvari had requested the removal of the Ellariannatte but had been dissuaded from commanding it outright. He viewed the trees with great and obvious suspicion, but none of the Master Gardeners would be budged until he had absolute proof of their perfidy. They were called “the Kings’ trees,” but they had never survived in any soil other than the Common—until now. Natural fear of Duvari—caution being too mild a word—had been set aside by genuine outrage.
Birgide could not restrain a smile at the hilarity and absurdity of the situation—but she gave in to it only here, beneath the boughs of those trees. She would, of course, be seen long before she met with Duvari.
No one moved to intercept her as she entered the palace and walked its halls; she noted the magical protections that were new and paused only a moment to examine them. Duvari would be waiting if she tarried.
• • •
“He did what?”
“Jarven did not enter the forest on his own recognizance. He entered it with the aid and permission of the regent.”
“The regent. Finch.”
Birgide nodded.
Duvari was not alone, which was unusual. Devon ATerafin, second in the hierarchy of the Royal Trade Commission, stood beside him. One glance at the room told her they were otherwise unobserved, although magic had been used to capture words. This, she expected; it was an enchantment paid for, requested by, and approved by Patris Larkasir. It was to Devon Duvari now looked.
“Jarven exerts no undue influence on the regent.”
“She has never escorted him into the wilderness before.”
“She has. The dinner with Patris Araven was held in The Terafin’s personal chambers.”
“What game is he playing?”
He, Birgide thought, not Finch. As if he could hear the thought, Duvari, in full icy, scowl, turned his glare on Birgide. “Devon spoke of undue influence. It is true. Jarven does not magically control the girl; there is no sign of obvious extortion. If you feel that those are the only relevant forms of control, I have taught you so poorly you have almost no place here.”
She considered the information she had relayed from several different angles and finally said, “It was not Finch’s suggestion; it was not her idea. Nor was it Jarven’s, initially.”
“Haval.”
“No. I would have assumed Haval Arwood under any other circumstance, but I witnessed Jarven’s entry. One of the forest denizens desired Jarven’s presence, and Finch did not think it wise to refuse him.”
“Would she be capable of it?”
“I cannot say. I would,” Birgide added, “but it would be costly. The regent—as any competent regent—chooses battles she is likely to win. It is my belief that she did not feel she could, when confronted with both Jarven and the eldest.”
“What did he want?” Duvari was never in what could be called a good mood. Tonight, it was actively foul.
She exhaled. “I believe he wants to be more powerful.”
Devon coughed, and Birgide reddened. “Apologies,” she said to her master. “I mean, rather, that he believes that the liaison with the eldest will help him achieve that goal.”
“And so it is about power at last.”
Birgide, however, shook her head. “I seldom interact with Jarven. I have done some research since we encountered The Terafin four days ago. There is no shortage of information on Jarven—but the older that information is, the less reliable; he is lionized.”
“Demonized,” Devon said.
“I confess I find Jarven difficult to understand. Haerrad makes sense to me. Rymark made sense.”
“Has Rymark been found?”
“No. He is not in the wilderness, and he is not—that I have been able to ascertain—in Averalaan. I have not expended resources in such a search; I have not been given funds to cover it.” Before Duvari could respond, she added, “Haerrad has all but torn the city apart looking for Rymark, with the regent’s tacit approval.”
“Tacit?”
It was Devon who said, “Explicit approval. She would very much like to see the problem with Rymark resolved by his death. If he were brought before her, I think it very likely that she would draw the House Sword and relieve him of his head. She would require several layers of permission to do so.”
“I believe she would receive most of them,” Duvari replied, his tone indicating that this was a tertiary matter at best, left in the hands of others. “You do not trust Jarven.”
“No one does,” Birgide replied. “He supports the regent in his new role as council member, but the right-kin doesn’t trust him either.”
“Finch has been under his thumb for long enough that she does?”
Birgide hesitated again, which added expression to Duvari’s face, none of it pleasant. “I would say she is fond of him,” she finally said. “Where Jarven ATerafin is concerned, she seems to feel that trust is irrelevant. As regent, she has little choice; she will be surrounded by men and women she cannot entirely trust. So was The Terafin. It is a fact of life.”
“You attempt to justify a woman who holds political power to me?”
“No. Merely to explain. It is not Jarven that concerns me—”
“Then it must be true that you’ve had no experience with him.”
She had said “little” but offered no correction.
“And not the Terafin regent, either.”
“No.” Committed, she said, “it is Haval Arwood.”
• • •
Devon’s posture didn’t change; he recognized the name though he did not consider the tailor a threat. It was Duvari whose silence shifted; it became a glacial structure, a barrier. Duvari could kill a man without once altering his expression, but there were subtle signs if one observed only the Lord of the Compact, and not his intended victim.
She saw them now.
“He has asked you to deliver another message.”
“Yes, in a fashion.”
“In a fashion?”
“I believe he intended that I speak with you. He has a way of revealing information without ever stooping to words; he allows more—or less—to be seen.”
“And he concerns you how?”
Devon had not uttered a word. He had not only fallen silent, but actually stepped back; she spared him a glance, no more.
“I do not think Haval cares for, or approve
s of, Jarven ATerafin. I have seldom seen them in the same space together, and the mention of Jarven’s name instantly sours the tailor. Jester dislikes Jarven intensely, but that may be because Jarven treats him obviously and visibly as a child. I don’t think Jester’s information about Jarven is any different than the regent’s. The Terafin herself does not care for him.
“I believe that Haval approved of Jarven’s decision.”
“Pardon?”
“I believe he wants Jarven to be the beneficiary of the ancient. I believe he believes it is necessary.” She hesitated. Duvari marked it, of course. “The Terafin trusts Haval. Jester trusts him. Finch is neutral, but he adores his wife—and that sentiment has meaning for Finch. Her first avenue of attack, should she wish to interfere with Haval, will be that wife.”
“She would not be foolish enough to harm her.”
Birgide frowned and then shook her head as if to clear it. Ruefully, she said, “Forgive me. I have clearly spent too long with The Terafin’s kin. She would never harm Hannerle. She would never allow her to be harmed. She would not attack or threaten—even if it were not clear that that would doom her instantly. No, she would show up at Elemental Fashion, she would ask to have a quiet word with Hannerle, and she would pour out her fears and her concerns to the older woman.”
Devon coughed, and Birgide looked at him; his eyes were crinkled in the corners with what looked like genuine amusement.
“And she would expect this to have some salutary effect?”
“Yes. And in my opinion, she would not be wrong.”
“It is not a tool available to the Astari,” Duvari finally said.
“No. I do not know how dangerous the tailor is. When I first met him, I would have said that he was not dangerous at all. I know that he worked with—or for—you, but I have inferred that; he does not speak of it. But you do know Haval in a way that I don’t. You would threaten his wife only if you were utterly and completely certain that you could kill him almost immediately.”
At this, Duvari smiled. It was grim, but genuine; he approved. Approval had once meant safety. Birgide no longer required that safety, but she felt an almost embarrassing warmth, regardless.
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