“Very well. You are, of course, correct. And Haval’s wife would never welcome me into her home in the way she would welcome Finch. Do you believe that it is the wife’s concern that motivates Haval now?”
“Yes. I do not think that the regent—or any of the den—have attempted to influence her in that regard. I believe she met them when they were much younger, and where allowed, she worries. Hannerle had no children, and not by choice.”
“You asked him this?”
“Jester.” She replied. “And regardless, yes. I think that Haval’s wife is a large factor in his motivation where Terafin is concerned.”
“You are now wasting time,” Duvari told her. “Speak the rest of your mind and speak it quickly. I will visit Haval myself.”
“You are aware that the forest is alive in a way that most forests are not.”
“Time, Birgide,” was his impatient response.
“Very well. There are beings that are not human within the confines of the forest. Some can speak explicitly, and some speak in ways that are not simply audible. Haval first found the heart of The Terafin’s forest defenses on his own. He entered the back gardens and did not become lost; it was as if the forest itself guided him.
“They refused Jarven entry outright. It wasn’t a formal rejection; they simply shut the paths of entry. He spent time in the gardens—but only the formal gardens. He could not find the forest itself.”
Duvari nodded.
“Yet Haval was not only allowed to enter, but he was allowed to enter the forest’s heart. He did not search for it; he merely . . . walked. He likes the forest,” she added. “And no, before you ask, this is observation, no more. His like or dislike, on the face of it, isn’t of concern to the wilderness or to us.”
“What is?”
“The forest elders, for want of a better word.”
“You believe they exert influence over him?”
She shook her head again. “They call him Councillor.”
“Councillor? Of who, or what?”
“I assume they refer to The Terafin. But no, it’s more than that. I understand my own role in the wilderness, and in the forest. I understand the alterations that have been made in me, that I might better fulfill my duties. But those alterations do not exist solely in the forest. If Jarven is similarly altered—and I assume he will be, and possibly more heavily—”
“Why Jarven?”
“Because his death will not hurt Jewel. If they try, if they fail, it is merely failure to them. Before you ask, my death would not have hurt her either. The cost of failure in either of our cases was deemed acceptable.”
“Continue. Haval?”
“Councillor is what they now call him. They call the regent by her name; they call me Warden. They do not seem to care for mortal ranks or titles; they don’t disdain them, but they don’t feel they serve a useful function. I believe Councillor is like Warden, in that regard.
“I assume that The Terafin values his opinions when he chooses to offer them; from Jester, I infer that he does not offer often. Even when she asks for his opinion, he frequently forces her to answer the questions she’s asked on her own.”
“That was always his way.”
“It’s his way now. Jester doesn’t enjoy it,” she added.
“Councillor.”
“Yes. The forest is aware of him in a way I was not.” She hesitated again. “He is allowed, in all ways, to keep his own counsel.”
“Pardon?”
“I believe he is the only person—outside of The Terafin herself—who could enter the wilderness, of whom I would not immediately be aware. I believe he can traverse it in the same fashion. He has been speaking with the elders, and Duvari—they have come, on occasion, to speak with him. He cannot hear them as I hear them, or as The Terafin does; they are sometimes forced to walk.
“But they walk. I saw him talking to one tree-spirit for what felt like hours, once. Or, rather, the spirit spoke; Haval asked a few questions, but seemed content to absorb information rather than share it.”
“Would you say that Haval has been altered in any way?”
“No. I am certain he has not.”
“You believe Haval recommended Jarven ATerafin?”
After a long pause, she shook her head. “No. But I believe he was not ill-pleased that it was Jarven chosen.”
“Do you understand Haval Arwood’s previous life?”
“No. You have not spoken of it; you will not allow it to be spoken of.”
“Very well. Do you understand why Haval Arwood is not dead?”
“No,” she said again.
“It would have been too costly to kill him, at the time,” Duvari replied. “And I had reason to believe him when he said he was done with that life. I will speak with Haval, and decide; if he has broken his word in any fashion, things will change.”
21st day of Morel, 428 A.A.
Terafin Manse, Averalaan Aramarelas
There was a very specific knock at the door of Haval’s workroom, a room he occupied less and less often. He had taken a second room in the West Wing, one which was significantly tidier; it was not, however, the room in which he held his meetings. As he expected this one and had scheduled it, in a manner of speaking, he was only surprised at the hour. It was late.
Late enough that he should not have been seated, beading a pale gold silk. Beading was finicky work and required light; the light in the room was therefore bright, being supplied at this point entirely by magestones. But the work itself was soothing, the intricacy demanding some part of his attention.
“Enter.”
The door opened slowly. The frame was empty for scant seconds, and then Duvari filled it. Ah, Haval thought.
“You will forgive me for not rising immediately,” the tailor said. “Please, take a seat.”
Duvari was meticulously tidy. Haval allowed a smile to grace his otherwise focused expression as he met the Astari’s gaze. He could not abandon his work immediately without losing beads, and took some care to finish, to knot.
“Is there a seat?” Duvari asked.
“Ah, yes. Apologies. I try to leave one free, but I am working on a commission at the moment, from one of my exacting, and impatient, clientele.”
“And wealthy?”
“Yes, very. I have been forced to accept fewer commissions of late, and as I am largely unpaid while I remain within Terafin, those I have accepted must be completed. You are late.”
Duvari raised a brow. He stepped into the room just far enough that he could close the door; he then stood with his back against it. Jester would be leaning; Duvari did not. “I was unaware that I had committed myself to a specific hour.”
“I speak in generalities, of course,” Haval replied. “And it is late.” Haval carefully set a bead into the jar from which it had come, twisting the lid. Duvari said, “You have your bead jars enchanted.” His voice was flat.
“Only for expensive beads,” Haval replied.
“And your needles are likewise enchanted.”
“Ah, well, yes.”
“Because sharp needles are required?” Duvari was clearly tired; his sarcasm was both pointed and edged in mild, undisguised, disgust.
Haval smiled. “Because they are far too easily lost. I have only to speak, and they reveal themselves. It is a variant on the functional enchantment laid upon magestones for illumination.”
“They function as magestones.”
“They function as needles, but yes.”
“I am surprised the cloth is not enchanted.”
“Unlike needles or jars, cloth leaves my hands.” He folded said cloth very, very carefully, walked it over to the bed, and set it down atop of a pile of other bolts. The needle he added to its brothers on the sash that crossed his apron while Duvari continued his increasingly frustrated examination.
“You did not think I would give up my work?”
“I had expected that you could contain your work to your store. I chose
to visit that building first.”
“Ah. I do hope you did not wake my wife. She will worry.”
“I did not wake your wife, to my knowledge.”
“If she did not attempt to stave in your skull, she did not wake. She would not, I think, be happy to see you.”
“No one is happy to see me,” the Lord of the Compact replied. He then shut his mouth for five full beats. “So you are working as a tailor to The Terafin.”
“And the right-kin and the regent, yes.”
“What other work are you doing here, Haval?”
“I was wondering when you would find it in yourself to ask. If you will not join me here, perhaps you would be interested in a walk?”
“I would join you here if it were possible.”
“Finch generally moves things if she wishes to sit.”
“Clearly, Finch is treated with far more indulgence than I ever was.”
Haval smiled. “And perhaps that is true. My wife is fond of her; in any clash between the two of us, my wife would be certain to take her side.”
“Not true.”
“Oh, it is. You have failed to understand the essential nature of Jewel and her den-kin if you believe otherwise.”
“I have never failed to understand the powerful.”
“Yes, Duvari, you have. Your definition of power is merely danger along a single axis.” Haval held up a staying hand. “You cannot afford to make a mistake, of course. As a designer and clothier, my mistakes can be rectified; they will not lead to failure and death. I have spent some time crafting for the wealthy and the powerful. In many cases, they are not more cunning, but less; their survival is more certain.”
He set his heavy apron upon a peg on the wall nearest the door, a modification he had requested. He had no desire to fuss with closets or unnecessary doors at this particular time. “Shall we?”
“Am I to walk with you alone?”
“Yes, unless you came with escort.”
“And if I did?”
Haval sighed. “You did not. But Birgide is still yours, and she is omnipresent. If you require protection from an elderly tailor, she will be more effective than the rest of the Astari combined while you are on Terafin grounds.”
• • •
Haval was uncertain that Duvari would enter the forest; he was uncertain that he could. Jewel detested the Lord of the Compact. She did not despise him, precisely, but chaffed under his apparent lack of manners and social grace. Not, of course, that social grace was her particular strength; he suspected that was the reason for her annoyance. Duvari was not held to the same standards; he dismissed all such standards with contempt and ease.
Duvari, Haval had explained, did not rule.
This was not, strictly speaking, truth. Duvari was Lord of the Compact; he had both the ear and the trust of the Kings and their sons. He ruled the Astari, and where matters of security were concerned, could override the Kings themselves in a very narrow, specific set of circumstances. He terrified servants and petty nobles alike.
He did not terrify Haval. As Haval had said, it was late. He was not young, and the prospect of walking without reaching a destination had little appeal. If the forest chose to do so, they might walk for hours or days without reaching that destination.
“What are you doing here?” Duvari asked softly. Not good; an outright demand or command would have been a better sign.
“By here, do you mean the forest or House Terafin?”
“Both.”
“I am a tailor,” he replied, “to Finch and the right-kin. I offered Jewel advice when she was of a mind to ask for it, but she is not currently in residence.”
“Pretend for a moment that I have graduated from your infernal lessons.”
“Ah. You wish me to assume that you know what I know?”
“Except for the parts I don’t, yes. And if you ask me to delineate my ignorance, I may actually lose my temper.”
“Very well. In the case of the regent, I intended to do what I could—and it is minimal—to curb Jarven’s influence. That has proved largely unnecessary. The right-kin plays chess with me on occasion and discusses the forest. We talk about my commissions—the dress I am making now—and my wife. Occasionally, he asks for advice.”
“On?”
“How to deal with the Master of the Household Staff, for the most part. She is a truly intimidating woman. I myself deal with her by vanishing.”
“And Jester?”
“Jester runs errands for the regent.”
“And the regent’s tailor?”
“I do not find him particularly helpful, but on rare occasions he is the most reliable source of gossip I have. When I was in the store more often, I had access to better.
“Vereena, before you ask, is adjusting.”
“I had no intention of asking, as you well know.”
“Yes. I am relieved to see that you are able to accompany me.”
“That was not a given?”
“I rather suspected you would not be. The forest responds to The Terafin’s visceral trust—or distrust—of individuals.”
“And the forest allows you entry.”
“Everyone must trust someone, Duvari. Even the Kings. I have told her, repeatedly, that it is almost insulting—to me—to be trusted in this fashion. But where she is concerned, I am trustworthy. At best, my lectures are mixed messages; they are a waste of her time.”
Duvari exhaled. “I came to ask you what you want.”
“I know,” Haval replied. “You are Duvari. You have not appreciably changed in all the years I’ve known you. You are predictable in intent; you are frequently unpredictable in action. It is an unusual combination.” He continued to walk, gazing straight ahead. Duvari did likewise as if assuming that the only danger in this forest was Haval himself.
It was an oddly humbling thought.
“You have spoken to the god-born,” Haval continued, when Duvari failed to speak.
Duvari nodded, expression stiff.
“You have spoken to the magi; to Sigurne Mellifas.”
“I have. She was singularly unhelpful.”
“If I know you, you have spoken with the maker-born.” Although Duvari’s expression betrayed nothing, Haval could sense his surprise, could feel him struggle to make a decision. He might have told him it was a waste of time; no decision could be made that could not be unmade in the instant that followed it.
“Yes. I assume you have done these things as well.”
“Not personally, no. I am a tailor, Duvari. I am not the Lord of the Compact.”
“You might have been.”
“No. What I wanted would not allow that.”
“I will never understand you.”
Haval smiled; it was genuine. “I am a far more selfish man, in the end, than you are. I am more capricious, as well—but then again, so is stone. I wanted happiness, in my youth. I wanted peace. I did not expect that I would have either, and when the opportunity arose, I took it instantly.”
“And without regret?”
“Ah, that is different. Do I miss the life I lived? Perhaps, at times. But I would have missed the life I did not choose more. Ah, we are here.” Ahead, in the darkness of night forest, he could see light. It was gold, orange, red; it was white. It was the tree of fire.
Duvari paused as it came into view; he observed it critically, as if it displeased him. “It does not burn.”
“No. Not in the sense that wood naturally does. I find it remarkable. And warm.” He approached the tree; Duvari, sensibly, lagged behind. “You ask me what I want.” When he reached the tree itself, he turned, placing it firmly at his back and above his head. “My answer has not changed.”
“Has it not?”
“I want happiness. I want peace. To me, there is only one avenue to both. Do you understand what will happen to this city?”
Duvari’s hands slid behind his back. Haval did not tense. He was not concerned. Even had he chosen to remain in the West
Wing of the Terafin manse, he would not have been.
Duvari did not answer.
“Very well. Shall I tell you what I believe will happen?”
“Please.” Uninflected voice. Hooded expression.
“Beneath the streets of our city, sleeping, lie three of the four Princes who rode to face the god we do not name. They failed in their charge, and in their duty, and when the battle was over, the god was not dead. The wrath of their Lord was great, and the gods agreed; she exiled the four.”
“There are only three.”
“Yes. One of the four held to his vows.”
“Why did she not merely execute them?”
“Why, indeed?” was Haval’s soft reply. “Perhaps because she knew that this day would come. The Lord of the Hells has returned to us. In the past, he had his legions, his followers; in the present, he has his demons. And there they lie, the Sleepers, waiting for the moment of his return.”
“He has returned.”
“Yes. And they are waking. The enchantments of gods are large and not easily diminished.” He paused, glancing up, toward heat and light. Toward, in fact, the fire that had been brought to this forest by one of those demons. This was, in Haval’s opinion, Jewel’s chief strength. She could take the enemy in and make it her own—without demanding that it change its essential nature.
And so she had.
“The gods feared these Princes,” Haval continued. “They fear them now. If the Princes wake in this city, they will have a power that we—you and I—have never seen. Did you know that gods warred, when they last walked these lands?”
“I had heard.”
“They destroyed mountains. They destroyed oceans. They destroyed each other. What lay between these conflicts—our lives, and the lives of the lesser creatures, as they are called—did not, of course, survive. And so, when the three wake, we will have the equivalent of these gods beneath our very feet.”
“Your sources are good.”
“If a trifle self-involved, yes. I have grown fond of them. It is a weakness.”
“You are fond of The Terafin,” Duvari pointed out.
“Yes. And of her den. I admire Finch.”
“Teller?”
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