The butterfly was perched on her shoulder. It had not left her. Nor had it fallen silent—until now. The soft, attenuated whisper of its voice vanished so suddenly she could hear its absence as if silence were merely a different language.
There was excitement in the hush, anticipation, the held breath of unexpected hope. Silences were hard to read, but sometimes they said more than words could. Jewel thought she wanted to meet the girl—the woman—who had created this butterfly. She could understand, in the silence, that she was capable of a great joy; that creativity, that creation, was joy in some fashion to her, no matter the cost.
Shadow sniffed.
“Is he like Snow?” she asked the gray cat. “I watched Snow weave a dress from nothing.” The dress Shianne still wore. It was impervious to cold, damp, or fire, at the very least. When Shadow failed to answer, she continued. “You said only mortals are maker-born.”
Silence.
“But . . . Snow made that dress. I think he made the one he gave to me the same way. How is that not making?”
“It is different,” the cat said. “What we make is part of us. It is not made as you make. The old man will give you what he makes. He will not lose himself or part of himself in it.
“You have children,” he continued, without his usual whine.
“I don’t.”
“Your kind has children. But they do not have children the way she does. They cannot. They create, and what they create is part of them.”
“But—”
“If, for every child a mortal had, he was forced to cut off a finger or a hand to bring it to life—his own finger, his own hand—it would be similar. But not the same.”
Jewel stared, not at the maker, but at the cat. “Are you—are you telling me that Shianne is wearing part of Snow?”
Shadow hissed and muttered a very soft stupid. “What did you think the dress was? Mortals are stupid.”
“Shianne had to have a child the mortal way so that the child would not be of her.”
“Yes. But that is not our strength. She could not do it and remain as she was. You think we are strange? She has given up eternity—and the child will be weak and stupid, and it will die. She will leave nothing in the world.”
Jewel laid a trembling palm on the top of Shadow’s head. “Enough.”
“It is different for you. You have no choice.”
Watching Gilafas, Jewel said, “Does he? Did Cessaly?” And when Shadow failed to answer, she asked, “If I return the dress to Snow, can he unmake it? Can he take it back into himself?” She better understood Shianne’s awe and wonder at the dress Snow had made. And she bitterly regretted asking it of him without understanding the cost. That was the difficulty with her strange company of mortals and the immortal, the wild, the ancient. Even if they shared a language, or could, the familiar words they used meant something entirely different. Other.
“He made your dress. He wanted to make it.”
“. . . And he made Shianne’s dress.”
Shadow was silent.
“And it was my fault.”
“Yesssssss.” Shadow’s gaze was now upon Gilafas. “But the old man does not make as Snow makes; he makes as mortals do. As mortals would, were they gods. Watch him, Terafin.”
The butterfly whispered, trembling with excitement, and Jewel rose from the bench. Snow’s work was magic, magical; it was an act of concerted will, a demand that the very air surrender the materials he needed with which to work, to create. Gilafas could not, or did not, do that. Not precisely.
But the leaves—yes, there were more leaves, these of gold—that he took seemed too light, too fine, to be of substantial use. Only the feathers seemed large enough, strong enough, to survive craftsmanship.
A thought occurred to her. “Shadow—your feathers—”
“Yes?”
“Is it like—are they—”
He butted her, shaking his head. “You are soooo stupid.”
“And her—her hair? Is it like that, too?”
Gilafas said, as if he had heard and been part of the entire conversation, “No, Terafin. Can you not see it? It is both more and less intimate. They have surrendered a part of themselves to you, to do with as you see fit. It is not creation as they deem it. Creation is an act of deliberation, of choice. You lose your hair,” he added mildly. “So do normal cats.
“But the Wild Hunt does not. Hunters shed blood,” he continued. “And they, like mortals, will die from the loss of it—but perhaps not for the same reason. They are immortal; time cannot or will not touch them. But they are not invulnerable.”
Something about his voice was strange; the cadence was different. He spoke without the weariness, the pain, that had shadowed all his words and expressions since she had arrived.
“Who are you?”
• • •
The butterfly stiffened and shut its wings.
He spoke as if he had not heard her question. “The three strands of hair are of Ariane. The three feathers are of the eldest. Mortals have possessed at least the latter before.”
Shadow growled.
“But those feathers were seldom surrendered peacefully, and most did not survive the attempt to take them.”
“Why would they even want—” She shut her mouth.
“The Winter King had feathers from the three. He had, of course, seen them before; they are not fond of the Wild Hunt, and the Winter Queen is not fond of them, not precisely. What he did with the feathers, I cannot fully say; I was not there.
“But what you have, you were given.”
“Gilafas was given. What Gilafas has, Gilafas was given.”
“Pedantry changes no facts. The cat would not have surrendered the feathers if he was not certain that what was to be made of them would become, in some fashion, yours.”
“And the hair?” she asked softly.
“Had she not desired to leave you some token of her regard, they would not have remained in your hand. I expect she did not think you would understand the significance. She is beautiful, as a force of nature is beautiful—she understands that this has some effect on mortals. But she has not become beautiful in order to have this effect.
“The regard of mortals was never necessary to her survival. The enmity of mortals was insignificant, except in the great Cities of Man. She did not care how she was seen by you. And yet, in the palm of your hand, she left three strands of hair. You cannot be either Summer or Winter King. She had reasons of her own for leaving some small part of herself in your hands.
“But you have never parted from them.”
Jewel lowered her head. “No.”
“Until now.”
“. . . Yes.”
Even speaking, Gilafas had not turned to face her; his gnarled and callused hands had never once ceased their almost rhythmic, deliberate movements.
As they caught her eye, she watched. He wasn’t Snow. He physically melted the golden leaves; he did not touch—not yet—the leaves of diamond, although Jewel was certain that they would be of no use.
Slowly, slowly, the butterfly on her shoulder once again exposed the interior color of its wings.
This time, Jewel asked no questions, although she had many. She did not know what he would make but wondered if he had known before he stood in front of this worktable. It seemed to her, as he returned to the drawer that shouldn’t have existed, that he wasn’t trying to find the exact things he needed; he seemed to be staring at what he had, as if waiting for it to speak, to tell him what was lacking.
“This is boring,” Shadow said.
She didn’t agree.
But when he drew the vial from the drawer, the Artisan froze. Lifting it, he considered it, his expression shadowed by a memory of events to which she was not privy.
Shadow hissed. He wasn’t angry, but he wasn’t mocking, either.
“Eldest?” For the first time, he turned to face his witnesses.
“You make,” Shadow countered. “You decide.”
“You know what this is.”
“Yessssss.”
He set the vial back in the drawer—or tried. Jewel saw his look of consternation, followed slowly by one of resignation. “You seem young, to me,” Gilafas finally said. “You should not be here. You should be at home, among kin. But the longest shadows are falling, Terafin; you at least should be able to see them.”
Jewel said nothing.
“Can you see what casts those shadows?” He set the vial beside the hair. “There is death here, war here. In all of these things. Do you understand it?”
“The war?”
“War itself.”
“Yes.”
“Good. Only in your leaves do I see something other than echoes of, eddies of, ancient wars—and even then, the wars define their shape. We must know how to fight,” he added, so softly Jewel had to strain to catch the words. “And we must know when it is futile.”
“Who are you?” Jewel asked again.
“Gilafas,” he replied.
“You said—”
“And more. He will be aware of what has happened here, and he will accept it. But it is his power that makes; that power is no longer mine. It is said only Artisans inhabit Fabril’s reach. Understand that the difference between Artisan and Sen is very, very small when the world’s power is at its zenith. What I make, you could make, albeit in a very different fashion.”
Jewel shook her head.
“Ah. Not yet? No, not yet.” He fell silent; he did not speak again, not while he worked. Jewel found it difficult to watch him yet couldn’t say why.
Shadow sauntered over to Gilafas’ side. “Why are you making that?”
Gilafas did not answer. He wasn’t ignoring the cat; he had not heard him.
“Shadow.”
“It is boring.”
“Could Snow do this?”
Shadow hissed.
And Jewel thought of the necklace she wore. Had Snow been able to craft jewelry, he would not have had to steal it. She pulled the pendant from the folds of cloth that kept it hidden; light flooded the room, almost blinding her.
• • •
“Where did you get that?”
She had, once again, interrupted Gilafas at his work.
“From one of my cats,” she replied, blinking, blinking again. “Do you recognize it?”
“You should not have it.” Which was similar to “yes” but far more forbidding. “Where did your cat get it?”
She cringed. “He made me the dress you saw. You remember it?”
“. . . Yes.” There was more reverence in this word.
“He hated all my jewelry. He hated all of Finch’s. He couldn’t stand— I can’t remember his exact words. But he insisted I wear something worthy of his dress, and then he went to find it.”
The silence was shocked, choked. And yet, through it, the man who was guildmaster and Artisan and, also, other moved.
“I want to return it,” she added. Theft had saved her young life, and the lives of her den but this theft had been unnecessary.
“You cannot, now. It is done, Terafin; if there is a price to pay, you will pay it. I am sorry.”
He came to stand before her. Without permission, almost without awareness, he cupped the gem between his palms. His face was gray, grave. “I will take this,” he told her. “Perhaps it will doom you; perhaps it will save you.” Before she could reply, he had removed the necklace. “Stay, now, where you are. The eldest is free to go as he pleases; his nature is fixed. I will tell you when it is safe to move—if it becomes so.”
“Gilafas, even the firstborn—the children of gods—would not willingly touch this necklace.”
“No. They are wise. But they are not desperate—and we are. One does not take pointless risks, Terafin.” Light seemed to wash the age from his face, his expression, it was so bright. But he did not squint, did not blink. He returned to his table and set the gem down, where it pulsed faintly, like a beating crystal heart.
He then ignored it while he made.
• • •
She saw the ring take form and shape; it was a simple band. Words appeared to be written on it; she could see them from where she sat, and it made her uneasy. She could not read them. But words, she thought, were written on the inner face as well.
He made only one ring, but he was not yet finished; he set the ring aside with care and began again. The second creation was a chain—a necklace, she thought, given its length. There was nothing delicate about it, nothing fragile; the links were oddly formed and locked together. The third was a bracelet; unlike the chain, it was solid, and hinged, the gold thick. It might have resembled a manacle, but the craftsmanship was too fine. Into this last, gems were set, all of one color: green.
And then, when the three were done, he returned to the necklace Snow had stolen. “Understand,” he told her softly, “that even the ancient valued the Artisanal. Understand,” he continued, “that groveling and abasement will avail nothing.” And so saying, he gestured sharply and brought the flat of both palms down.
The gem shattered.
• • •
She could not say what he had done, not then, and not later. His hands had been—and remained—empty. She had handled the necklace, but seldom; she had taken it on the road with her only because she feared to leave it behind. She feared its unknown owner might descend upon her House in her absence, hunting the thief.
She did not scream; she did not speak. Words deserted her.
But as she watched, the light that had shone so brightly here and almost nowhere else did not disperse; it seemed to be a living thing, set free from a crystal cage. It moved, a miniature sun; it scorched the tabletop, without seeming intent.
She was rigid, frozen. Gilafas had ordered her to remain where she was; it was superfluous. She could not move now. Her body had locked itself in place, her seer’s instincts screaming her into immobility.
Gilafas began to sing or to keen; as he did, the butterfly resting upon her shoulder pushed itself up and off. It fluttered its way to Gilafas, to his table, and when it reached that table, it landed.
“Not you,” he whispered, looking down, his face hidden, his odd song paused. He did not pick his song up again, but the butterfly did—in its whisper-thin, childlike voice. “Not you,” he said again. But he made no attempt to remove the butterfly, no attempt to preserve it as the white light moved inexorably over its folded wings.
Everything in Jewel Markess strained against the imperative to remain seated: everything. But the butterfly was not a child, and not hers, and it had—in some fashion—chosen. She understood that an Artisan had crafted it, had assumed that it had one purpose, and one alone. She understood that to save the butterfly was not to save an actual life—but that understanding was not visceral.
The butterfly, however, was not destroyed by the light; it seemed to absorb it, to drink it in. As if that light were jealous, possessive, it consumed the original color of the wings, and left white behind. But the butterfly did not melt or shatter, although it was made of glass.
It could not and did not absorb all the radiance of the light; much diminished, that light continued its passage across the table and across the three items so newly made. At each, it left some of its essential brilliance behind, none so dramatically as the butterfly. Only at the last—the ring itself—did it gutter.
The butterfly returned to Jewel, then.
“These, also, are yours, Terafin. You must take them.”
“What do they do?”
“Lie,” he replied. “Where you travel, it is the ring that will keep you safe from all but a handful of enemies.”
“How?”
“It will tell them the cost of your death; they are ancient, and they will understand. Only those who feel they can escape the Winter’s reach will act against you without provocation.”
“And the other things?”
“I am maker, not seer. They have a role to play, but it is not clear�
��to me. Perhaps you will come to an understanding of it, perhaps not. You are not required to take what I have made; it is a gift.”
She understood that there was a future in each of these things that touched hers. “And—and this?” she asked, indicating the butterfly that had returned to her shoulder.
“It will accompany you, I fear.”
“But it’s yours!”
“Yes. It was made for me, but all things made have an existence of their own. Perhaps, in time, it will return to me. Perhaps it will return, instead, to its maker, carrying within it a gift, a light she might craft into her next making.”
• • •
Jewel looked at the items she had been given, at the gift of hair that had been returned to her, unrecognizable. She turned the ring over, examined the odd writing around both its inner and outer faces, and then slid it over a finger on her left hand. The ring fit perfectly; it was warm.
The chain, much thicker than the chain she had previously worn, she returned to its place around her neck; she was surprised at the weight of it, the thickness. It disappeared into the folds of her layered clothing. The bracelet she contemplated for a long moment. Of the three pieces, it was the most ornate; of the three it was the only one into which he had worked gems, glittering pieces of color and clarity that nonetheless suggested beauty was hard. She studied it carefully, saw that it was etched in some fashion with lines that implied leaves, possibly flowers; they were faint and dependent on the light.
This one, in the end, she slid into her pack, where it clinked against the tiara.
The purpose of the three items was not clear to her, but she understood that at the heart of the ring, a strand of perfect platinum was somehow encased. It was hers, and until and unless she set the ring aside, it was safe.
“You will return to me, Terafin, when next you return to Averalaan while you wake.”
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