She turned to look back at the group and realized Angel was beside her because she had been leading. Calliastra had taken the other side, and Night was stepping, or trying to step, on Angel’s feet. In the cat hierarchy, the rest of the den was obviously of lesser import than the cats, although they did grudgingly protect them if anyone else tried to hurt them.
She signed, I don’t know.
He shrugged. He had long since given up questioning her instincts; he asked for information so that the rest of the den could plan. Their fights were not always her fights, but her fights—when they knew about them—they adopted as their own. Always had.
“We have to keep going,” she added softly.
“Terrick reminds us that we have to eat.”
Jewel nodded. It was remarkably hard to stop her feet from moving forward; she had to concentrate. She didn’t like it.
• • •
Kallandras surprised her. When they had finished eating, he sang. He had a lute, one she couldn’t recall seeing on the journey so far. She didn’t ask. Even had she wanted to, she found his voice so riveting it obliterated all other thought—and she sank into the sudden stillness on the inside of her head.
She was not surprised when Calliastra joined her; she was slightly surprised that the scion of darkness and love sat at a respectful distance. “Jewel.”
“Call me Jay.”
Calliastra frowned.
“It’s what Angel calls me. It’s what all my den call me.”
“Den?”
“Family,” Jewel replied, not wanting to explain what the word “den” meant otherwise. “We’re not related by blood, but in every other way, we’re kin.”
“And they call you . . . Jay? Why?”
“When I was a child, I hated my name.”
“But why?”
“Jewel?” She shook her head.
“You still hate your name.”
“I’ve learned to live with it. At home, though, no one uses it.”
Something about Calliastra’s guarded expression brought elements of that home back to her, and not in a good way. But she said, “I’ll consider it.” She fell silent as if doing so, but then she lifted her head. “Have you ever been where we are now?”
“No.”
“Tell the ax-man not to cut wood here.”
“He wouldn’t. It’s not cold, and none of the food we currently have needs heat.”
“Tell the Arianni not to hunt here, either.”
“If you’re about to tell me to tell my cats the same thing—”
“No. The Lord of this land has always had a fondness for those beasts; if the cats came with you, she will nonetheless hold you blameless for their mischief.” Her hands were massaging the folds of her blood-red gown.
• • •
Shianne did not seem to be discomfited in the summer heat; the light of the sun was insistent and even, until the clouds rolled in. Where they had experienced snow and bitter, howling wind, they now had rain. Jewel thought she preferred the snow; in the cold, it didn’t seep into clothing.
“All living things require water.”
Jewel stopped in her tracks. Everyone did, with the exception of the cats, who appeared to perk up a bit—which was generally not a good sign. They didn’t, on the other hand, shift into their predatory postures.
“Yes, even us,” Jewel replied, although she could not see the speaker. “But we prefer for the most part to drink it rather than wear it.”
The speaker chuckled. Jewel tried to track the direction of that voice, but it was impossible; it seemed to come from everywhere.
“It does,” Shadow said, clearly annoyed. “These are her lands.”
Snow said, “They are mostly boring.”
“And may they remain that way,” Jewel muttered.
“A sentiment I share.” A woman stepped around the trunk of a tree of middling size. Jewel couldn’t identify it and didn’t try; the only trees she knew by name were where she’d left them. At home.
“Well met, Jewel.”
Jewel bowed. “And you, Corallonne.”
• • •
She did not look familiar to Jewel, but Jewel recognized her nonetheless.
“It has been but a short time since the Stone Deepings,” Corallonne told her. She nodded to Avandar. “Viandaran. Ah, and I see young Celleriant is with you as well.”
He offered her a perfect—but short—bow. “Firstborn.”
“You have come to my lands on a path that is seldom traveled, and only at need.”
“We visited the Oracle, yes.”
“Then you must be weary. Come. Shelter here for the evening.” She glanced at Shadow and added, “I would appreciate it greatly if you did not hunt here.”
“We will only hunt bad things,” Shadow replied.
“What if we’re hungry?”
“You are not mortal, to perish from something as simple as starvation.” She then turned to Calliastra. “Sister. You are welcome here.”
“Oh? That’s new.” Calliastra had folded her arms; her lips were a compressed, pinched line in an otherwise astonishingly beautiful face.
Corallonne’s face was neither pinched nor beautiful; she appeared to be Jewel’s elder by perhaps two decades. There was silver in her hair, but it was a scattering of light across an otherwise perfect brown. Her skin was darker than Calliastra’s, darker than Ariane’s, but it seemed warmer to Jewel. It implied home.
And was she now a child again, to be so homesick while the world hung in the balance?
Before she could speak, Shianne stepped forward. She had never been awkward, but was stiff and hesitant now. It put Jewel on her guard. She found no suspicion in herself for or about Corallonne.
That is never wise, Avandar said. The Winter King was not far behind. But neither man appeared to be unduly worried; the eddies of their interior conversation were simple nagging. Jewel had grown up with that; it held no horror for her, although it was trying.
Corallonne seemed neither surprised nor displeased to see Shianne.
“Shandalliaran,” she said. She held out both of her hands, palms up, and after a notable hesitation, Shianne placed her own in them.
“Firstborn.”
“You are concerned.”
“There is a debt of blood between us. We have never been friends.”
“No. But we have been allies in larger causes; we have managed—with effort—to put enmity to one side.”
“And it has ever returned.”
Corallonne nodded again. “But you seldom visited my lands. Perhaps twice, in my recall.”
Celleriant was staring at the two women with growing concern. He did not, however, draw sword or shield.
“I have come—”
“As a member of Jewel’s delegation, yes. And I accept Jewel’s stay here without reservation. She will be held responsible for any war you bring with you.” There was warning, in that.
Shianne, however, nodded. “Understand that I do not serve her. I am not bound to her.”
“No. But Jewel is an odd creature, as mortals oft are. The bindings she holds are her own; she does not command or control in the ways of our kind. But she is, if I am not mistaken, Sen.
“And she is, if I am not mistaken, attempting to find a path to my sister, Ariane.” She failed to notice the effect the name had on Shianne, probably deliberately. To Jewel, she added, “there are no paths, not now. We have been searching for a way to enter her lands, and we have failed, time and again. But I perceive that you carry hope with you, in all its complicated forms.”
“Yes.”
“Introduce me to your friends, then, and we will withdraw for the time to a safer, quieter place.”
• • •
Angel offered a bow which was almost perfect in form if a little stiff. Terrick knelt, which surprised them all. “All-mother.”
Coralonne’s eyes widened, and her lips rose at the corners, her eyes narrowing in a genuine smile. “You ar
e far from home,” she told the Rendish warrior.
Terrick did not lift his head; he did not rise.
“Come.” She offered him her hand, and he placed his—reluctantly—across hers; hers was dwarfed. Terrick was taller, wider, larger in all possible ways than the woman who stood before him—but seemed, at the same time, to be younger and awkward with that youth. It was a striking contrast. “Rise, Terrick.”
He did, but again, absent his usual powerful grace.
“You are far from home,” Corallonne said again, “but home is here, for the while. I bid you welcome, you and your kin.”
He was silent, as he so often was. It was not a comfortable silence.
“Do not tell me that the boy is not your kin,” was her gentle command. “I see you in him.”
“He is not blood, All-mother.”
“No? You made blood oaths to his father, and you remained true to those vows. Some of his father’s blood runs in your veins, and it certainly runs in his. I hear no lie, Terrick, and offer none. You are welcome here.”
She moved then; the cats seemed drawn to her, but they followed docilely—for cats. To Kallandras, she said, “If you are willing, I would hear you sing before you leave.”
His bow was an Imperial bow in form and texture. The warmth that Jewel was drawn to did not likewise compel the bard; he was guarded and would remain so. But he was, as always, polite. He demanded none of her attention and certainly none of her respect.
“Kallandras,” Jewel said, when it became clear that Corallonne was waiting on his reply.
“I would be honored to have such an audience,” he replied. And he sounded as if he meant it—but he was a bard. If he couldn’t do at least that, he would never have been given his rank: Master Bard of Senniel College.
Coralonne stopped last in front of Adam as if it were a deliberate decision.
Adam offered her a very Southern bow—it was brief, a bob of motion. “Why does he call you the all-mother?”
“I am not certain,” she replied. “But it is what his people have always called me, since our first meeting, and I accept it—it is spoken with respect, and there is affection in it if one knows how to listen. To you, however, I am not that. You are far from the Sea of Sorrows; far indeed from the Voyanne. I do not think you will ever return to it.”
“I will not,” Adam said. He was young, yes. But he was firm with youth and certainty. “Arkosa has returned home, and when I return to my kin, it will be to that home. We wander no longer.”
Her smile was soft, but it was sad, as if she remembered something ancient that still caused pain. “No. The Cities of Man are rising—and they must rise. I can feel the god’s footsteps from here. You have accompanied Jewel, and you will travel with her some small while yet—but when it is time, you must leave her.”
“And how will I know?”
“You will know. Ah, no, perhaps that is not correct. She will know.”
To Jewel’s great surprise, Adam shook his head, a brief no in the gesture. “She would send me from her side now if she had that choice. How will I know that she does not do it out of worry or fear for me? How will I know?”
Corallonne chuckled. “You will not know, Adam. But you are wrong. You could not be here at all had she not desired your presence, and I have been made aware of what you have done on the unclaimed road. You are necessary, or you would not be here. And when necessity dictates otherwise, she will send you away—and you must go.”
“To where?”
“Arkosa,” was the quiet reply. “They wait you, even now.”
He frowned. “You are not the Oracle.”
“No. You wish to know how I know?”
He nodded.
“We can feel the Cities of Man when they wake, when they rise.” She looked, then, to Calliastra. The daughter of darkness averted her gaze, but she did nod. “To enter those cities—those ancient, lost cities—we require permission. I was welcome in all but one, and that welcome has not been revoked. They do not know how to revoke it. They do not know how to govern the city.”
“The Matriarchs know how to lead. They know how to rule.” He spoke with more heat, his brow furrowed.
“I did not say that they did not know how to lead their people, nor would I. That four cities will rise is a miracle in and of itself—one that we might never have predicted. I spoke of the governance of the city itself.”
Adam appeared confused; he wasn’t the only one.
“The Cities of Man were built by the Sen. All of them. In no other way would such places have been able to withstand the power of, the war of, gods. They are not a simple collection of buildings as Celleriant says your cities have become. The Cities bear the marks of their creators. But understand, Adam, that the women called Sen within the Cities of Man were not Sen. They were seers, yes. But they governed their kind in seclusion; they protected their kind. Sen was both an ancient title, in mortal terms, and a state of being. Those who built the Cities of Man were Sen. And my sister believes—the Oracle believes,” she added, as Calliastra bridled, “that your Jewel is Sen.”
“Are the Cities alive?”
“They are, in some fashion, alive,” Corallonne said gently. “They will not bleed; you cannot knit them whole with the strength of your talent-born gift. But they are not simple hovels or shelters. You have touched the sleeping earth in one of the Winter lands.”
“And the cities—Arkosa—will be like that?”
“Like and unlike, yes. The Cities had defenses. Some of those defenses are active now, because they are part of the fabric of the city’s creation; only when the last stone is razed will those defenses falter. But some defenses could not be woven into the fabric of the city itself; they were added later. They are not unimportant.
“You are not Sen,” she added softly. “That is not your power. But you are powerful. Jewel is, or will be, Sen. The girl who made that butterfly is not, but she is powerful. Do you understand?”
Adam didn’t, but that was fair; Jewel didn’t either.
Corallonne shook her head, a rueful smile altering the geography of her face. “And I will talk until you are weary with lack of food and sleep, both. Come.” She gestured, and the forest stepped away, trees moving back, their roots the only thing that remained in their passage.
Above their heads, branches began to stretch and, eventually, to twine; they formed a canopy.
“Come,” she said again.
• • •
Jewel was reminded instantly of what The Terafin’s personal chambers had become. She felt, if not at home, then as if she were in a home, someone’s personal dwelling. The air was warm, but the heat was lessened by the canopy.
She did not expect to see walls. Indeed, there were none—but ivy, or something similar, seemed to gird tree trunks as if those trees were, like the walls of the houses in the city, solid and unchanging. There were stumps for tables and a small brook around which large, rounded stones had been laid; across these stones was moss.
“You will forgive the lack of hearth or fire; we light no fires here.”
Jewel nodded.
“The food that sustains us does not require your cooking; the water that passes by us is pure and clear. It is never cold here.”
“Not never,” Shianne said quietly.
“Where there is cold,” Corallonne continued, as if she had not been interrupted, “it comes with the visitors—and leaves with them, as well. Only one of you was born, in the end, to Winter.”
“I was born in the Summer,” Celleriant said.
“Yes, Winter Prince, you were. But it was in the Winter that you blossomed, as intended. There is no war here.”
“War will take everything,” he replied.
“Yes. But the heralds have not yet sounded the final horns, and we remain. There is no war here,” she said again, “and those who might bring it cannot yet find the heart of my domain. I am not your Lady—your former Lady—to be chained and trapped in the confines of my la
nds, with no passage out, and no path in, but these are my lands, and permission to traverse them is required.
“Is that not so with your Lord’s lands?” It was a sharper question, a more pointed one, than she had yet asked.
He did not answer.
Corallonne then turned to Jewel. “I would have you answer my question.”
“I believe permission is required.”
“You believe?” She took no trouble to hide her surprise, which verged on a kind of stunned outrage.
Shadow hissed laughter. “She is very stupid,” he told the firstborn. “Permission is required, but she doesn’t know how to withhold it. She is afraid to own anything.”
“My dear, that will not do. Do you not understand why the Cities of Man could withstand the assault of walking gods?” Her voice gentled. “I see that you do not. Well. I will not withdraw my welcome. Come. Rest. It is safe for you to sleep here.”
• • •
Jewel ate in a silence that was as close to peace as she had felt since she left her home. The Oracle had not starved them, but the Oracular halls spoke of danger and the consequences of bad choices, all of which could easily be made at any moment. Corallonne’s forest was nothing like those stone halls.
She slept.
She woke to the sound of voices, both familiar.
“She will not be strong enough to do what she must do,” Corallonne said.
“She will, sister,” the Oracle replied. “I have seen the full measure of her success, the full measure of her failure. The one shadows the other; they are intertwined. She cannot be all of one thing; she will not be all of the other.”
“She will break. She cannot do what must be done.”
“She is the only hope we have.”
“Our sister will destroy her. She has brought with her the tools of that destruction. Why did you allow her to wear that ring? Why did you allow it to be made at all?”
The Oracle’s chuckle was low, rich, compelling; there was affection in it, and warmth. It reminded Jewel of her Oma in an indulgent mood, when everything was safe and might be forgiven. She did not move; she listened, wondering if everyone alive sometimes yearned for the illusory safety of childhood.
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