“I told you. The tangle changes. There are places and phases and shifts that will kill you. They will kill The Terafin. She does not, therefore, choose to walk them. Whether or not she makes conscious choices or instinctive ones is irrelevant. She is speaking to the tangle; were she not, I would not have known that she had entered it.
“The tangle is replying. . . as it can. I can hear her request. I can hear, far more clearly, the tangle’s response. I am following its response,” he added. “And, Hectore, I retain my shape and form because you are here. It is a reminder—a necessary reminder—that I cannot take shortcuts.”
“Almost, I wish I had taken your advice and gone back to bed,” Hectore replied. But he smiled.
• • •
He had not chosen to pack food—or rather, to have food packed—and he regretted it as the day wore on. Andrei, however, had not forgotten. When he found a rock, or a series of rocks, that both Hectore and Jarven could see, he called a halt and brought out the type of food one generally took for winter travel. By foot. In the wilderness.
Jarven did not complain. Hectore watched his old rival as he ate. “How long did you work the caravan routes?”
“Some number of years. I started when I was too young for the Kings’ armies. I had managed to avoid being reluctant ship crew and did not consider my chances for continuing to do so high.”
“And this reminds you of your youth?”
Jarven shook his head. “No. This reminds me of no part of my lived life. I do not see what you see,” he added, voice softer than his wont. “I almost wish I could; I would like to be able to compare and contrast the two things.” He glanced at Andrei, who was not eating. “You see both things.”
Andrei said, “I see far more than two things, ATerafin, but I ask for silence. She is not close enough that we can bridge the distance—not safely.”
“Ah. And had we not accompanied you?”
Silence for two beats. “I would be by her side now. But there are pathways which Hectore cannot walk.”
“And me?”
“I am uncertain. I would not risk Hectore.”
“No.” He paused. “What do the demons see, when they walk here?”
“They do not walk here,” Andrei replied. His voice was a wall—it often was when he chose to speak with Jarven.
“Because they are dead?”
Andrei stilled.
“He was always observant,” Hectore said mildly. “As you continually pointed out.”
“I believe I used slightly different phrasing.”
“Well, yes.”
Jarven was enjoying himself. Andrei was not. The two sentences, side by side, described most of the interactions between Jarven and the Araven servant. On very rare occasions, the sentences could be inverted—but that would not occur today.
“If you would occupy the Terafin Council member, I must listen. It is noisy here, and likely to grow more so, rather than less.” He was frowning. “I do not understand the choices she is making—or has made. She is not walking the rim of the tangle; she seems to be walking toward its heart.”
“That’s bad.”
“Yes, Hectore. At the heart of the tangle, there are no safe choices for The Terafin. At the heart of the tangle,” he added, “there are almost no safe choices for me.”
“Is she being pursued?”
“If she was, she has lost her pursuers. It is the only reason to enter the tangle at all. But if she retains Avandar and Lord Celleriant, such retreat should not be necessary. Retreat might be—but not into the tangle.” He frowned. It was a familiar frown.
It was the frown he offered bad wine, poorly cooked food, or unacceptable hospitality; it was the frown reserved for things that failed to meet some basic standards. The frown gave way to almost open disgust.
“Excuse me.”
Hectore laughed. The gravity of the situation did not warrant laughter, but he had seen a like expression on his servant’s face only once in his life, and it had involved mice, food, and a restaurant kitchen. Hectore considered the war against mice to be a constant battle—but he was not the commander of the army that fought it.
Andrei had said, there is a reason the word vermin was invented. He had been disgusted to the point of near-fury.
His expression grew more pinched, not less, as Hectore’s bark of involuntary laughter quieted.
“I resent having to do this,” Andrei said.
“You resent coming to The Terafin’s aid?”
“Please, Hectore; I believe I have given you enough amusement for the day. I am more than willing to come to The Terafin’s aid. I know what you are like when your godchildren or grandchildren are having difficulties—in general, it is I who suffers. I will go and return. Do not move from this place.”
“I don’t think—”
But Jarven placed a hand on Hectore’s shirt. He did not speak.
“Keep Jarven with you—if at all possible. I am not certain I would not feel a similar resentment should I be called upon to find him.”
Chapter Sixteen
The Hidden Wilderness
CARVER’S ARMS WERE TIRED. If the gold-furred creature was the size of a housecat, it was heavier. He had had some experience running with full arms—but it had been decades since he’d been forced to practice. Nor did his passenger give them time to break—not until Carver’s run had become a forward, gasping stumble. Ellerson was likewise winded, but he offered to carry the creature; Carver’s no was visceral, more felt than stated.
“We have not run far enough,” the creature said. “Nor fast enough. But you can skirt the snow with your weight.”
The moon’s light was silver and bright, although the moon itself seemed to be descending, just as the demon had done. Carver looked over his shoulder; he could not see the demon although he had no sense at all that they had evaded him. They were, for the moment, beneath his notice—and Carver desperately wanted to remain that way.
“Where,” Ellerson asked, “do you take us?”
“We are trying,” the creature replied, with obvious exasperation, “to evade the trapped. And they are following us. If they follow, he will find them, and when he does, he will find you. This was a terrible, terrible idea. One should never make important decisions when newly roused from slumber.” He shook his head, rumbling. “Put me down, boy.”
Carver was only too happy to oblige.
The creature once again became a bear. His weight, however, no longer sank beneath the snow’s icy surface. “I dislike fighting,” he said. “I am not one of the Winter people.” He began to sniff the area, as if in search of food. Some of that area included the two men who occupied it.
His nose stopped at the center point of Carver’s chest, and his words fell into a growl that contained no syllables.
“It is you,” he said. “It is you. What are you?”
Carver met golden eyes. As his gaze lowered to black, snuffling nose, he understood. He reached, slowly, into the folds of his shirt. Hand trembling, he withdrew the blue leaf that Jay had given him in her dream. In the moonlight, it glowed, the light brighter in the veins of a leaf that could only grow in a forest like Jay’s. Except this one hadn’t.
The bear’s jaw dropped open, as if unhinged. His eyes rounded. His brows—and he had brows of a paler gold than the rest of his fur, almost disappeared. His jaw worked, but he had, for a moment, forgotten the rudiments of speech. It returned in stumbling syllables, but it took a moment for an actual sentence to emerge from his attempts.
“Where did you get that?” he finally asked.
“It was given to me by—by my Lord.”
“And what, exactly, is your Lord? Do you serve one of the dead?” The question was sharper, harsher.
“No!”
“Then get rid of it, boy—if you can. Is it bound to you? Are you trapped? Is it your life that gives it form?”
Carver shook his head in rapid succession. “It was a gift.”
“It is no
t a gift that can be safely used or kept. I better understand why the dead seek you here, where their safety is not guaranteed. Do you even understand what it is?”
Carver shook his head again. “It’s . . . it’s a leaf.”
The bear turned a baleful gaze on Ellerson. It needed no interpretation. “Do you understand?”
“No. He does not lie. We were sundered from our own lands, and our Lord sought him while she slept. She left this in his keeping, but retained something of his in return.”
“Did she make this? It is a work, you understand? It is a terrible, terrible working. Put it away if you will not abandon it—but I suggest that you do.”
“If it is so terrible,” Ellerson replied, “it might be best not to leave it here. We do not wish the Sleeper to awaken.”
“Aye, this might wake him. He hears it. I heard it. And the creature who follows you—Darranatos that was—hears it as well. He hears it, if I were to guess, far more clearly than either of you.” The creature cocked his head to one side. “Do you hear it at all?”
“No. It makes as much noise as a single leaf does.”
“Mortals are so limited,” the bear said. “So limited.”
“The Lord we serve is mortal.”
The bear glared at him.
“Truly.”
“Impossible. Unless she is a maker.”
Carver shook his head. “She’s not a maker. She’s—” here, he hesitated. What was the word that Meralonne used? That Avandar used? Ah. “Sen.”
The bear stared at Carver. When Carver failed to add more, he swiveled his head to look at Ellerson. The domicis nodded.
“We cannot escape if you do not let go of that leaf.”
“But if we drop it here—”
“What was it intended to do?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did your Lord not tell you when she gifted it to you?”
Carver shook his head. “I’m not certain she knows, either.”
The creature shouldn’t have been able to look more outraged—but discussion had calmed it somewhat. His expression once again adopted the shape of shock and disgust.
“We are mortal,” Ellerson said, voice soft and respectful, as if the bear were one of The Ten. “We do not know. But perhaps you, who are infinitely wiser, might tell us.”
The creature sniffed. It reminded Carver so much of Shadow. “If you find the right soil,” he finally said, “you might be able to leave these lands. I can’t guarantee where you’ll come out, though.”
Carver’s breath quickened. Jay had left him this leaf. And maybe, just maybe, this was why. If so, she hadn’t done it deliberately—but she was seer-born. His hand tightened around the stem of the leaf as hope descended.
“Where,” he asked, voice dry, “is the right soil?”
“I will lead you,” he said. “But there is a danger.”
“You mean besides the demon and the Wild Hunt?”
The bear growled.
The Tangle
“You are not always stupid,” Shadow told Jewel. He had decided, for no obvious reason, that he needed to walk on the other side of Jewel, and had shouldered Angel out of the way, had stepped on Adam’s foot, and had taken his chosen position. Jewel had no doubt that he would immediately decide that he needed to change that position, and the process would repeat itself.
Calliastra was not amused.
In the minutes—or hour—that had passed since the forest floor beneath Shadow’s feet had become earth, she had grown silent. The wings of midnight that had been a hint of shadow were now as solid as Shadow’s wings. Her eyes were black, her lips bloodred. She was disturbing, compelling, and angry.
Angry Calliastra was not unlike angry Duster. In an emergency, anger could be held in abeyance.
“We should stop,” Terrick said, “and eat while it is safe to do so.”
Jewel shook her head. “It’s not safe. Not yet.”
The roars of the missing cats—Snow and Night—continued to break the silence. They did not grow any louder, but they didn’t grow distant, either. It was only when they ceased that Jewel’s fear sharpened. She had been following their voices.
“You’ve been following me,” Shadow said, his voice threatening growl the way heavy clouds threatened storms. Regardless, they’d not been gaining ground. Following them through this odd forest had taken a type of concentration she seldom used.
Every step she took—every step—had to be measured. She might take three steps, or four, but her foot would freeze before it came down on the fifth, and she would withdraw that foot, would test a step to the right or the left.
No one else seemed to be forced to be as careful—only Jewel. But this, at least, she understood. She was leading. If she didn’t take a wrong step, those who followed couldn’t, either.
Shadow purred.
She could, and did, lift her hand from his head; she no longer felt it was unwise to do so. Shadow was not materially different; he was a very large hunting cat. His wings were larger but not markedly so; his eyes were gold.
“Why do you need them?” he asked, as she was forced to take three steps to the right, as if circumventing a barrier.
She had no immediate answer; she wasn’t really concentrating on the question. She was concentrating on the placement of her feet, on the forward movement that was, for the moment, denied her.
“Jay.”
She looked up. At the edge of this forest was a clearing, seen between trees that were almost mundane. She could see white between the trunks of two of them; it wasn’t the white of snow.
“Stone?”
“Ruins, I think.” Angel didn’t offer to scout ahead. Nor did Terrick.
“Avandar?” She squinted. She wasn’t certain Angel was right.
Her domicis was so silent Jewel wondered—with a start—if she had somehow lost him.
You will lose everyone but Celleriant and the Winter King first, he replied. He was mildly annoyed, which was comforting.
“Can you see what Angel sees?”
Silence again.
Jewel, feet planted, turned to look at Calliastra and froze.
The darkness-born child of gods was no longer there. In her place stood a young woman Jewel did not recognize. Gone were the great, shadowed wings, gone were the eyes so black they had no whites, gone were the snow-white pallor and bloodred lips.
“Calliastra?”
The young woman blinked. She looked around in confusion.
Avandar cursed, but silently; he was stiff now.
Shadow cursed loudly, which drew the young woman’s attention. Her eyes were brown, looked brown, and her skin was freckled; her hair, while long, was also a shade of dark that didn’t immediately evoke the Lord of the Hells. And her nails appeared to be bitten. “Eldest.”
“Yes, yesssssssss,” he said, with weary resignation. He pivoted, leaped, and pounced.
She laughed—laughed—and leaped up so quickly she wasn’t standing where the great gray cat had landed.
“Shadow.”
He glanced back over his winged shoulder and then forward again to the girl. “She won’t let us have any fun.” He folded his wings and sighed. Loudly.
And the girl who was—who must be—Calliastra then clambered up onto his back.
What do you see? she asked her domicis.
I see what you see. She is . . . not what she was when we entered the tangle.
Jewel turned to Shianne then; Shianne was watching the two: girl and cat. But her lips bore the full shape of suppressed pain or sorrow. “Yes, Terafin. She is Calliastra. I did not know her in her youth, but the White Lady did, and I share some of her memories.”
“But—but what’s happened to her?”
Shianne shook her head. “We are in the tangle, and she is of the gods. I might now be grateful that I am mortal. The tangle can kill me, but it will not alter me as it might alter . . . others. No, before you ask. Only if you are killed or altered will Celleriant fal
l prey to that particular fate. He is yours.”
“I don’t even understand what that means,” Jewel said quietly. “He’s immortal. He’s ancient. I’m neither. How can someone like Celleriant be mine?”
“It is the nature of the vow,” Shianne replied, her voice soft. “You are mortal. You change, and are changed, simply by existing. It does not require effort on your part; it is natural for you. It is what you are.
“But his birth—like mine—was not yours. His nature is fixed, and to change requires effort, will, or external interference. He has said that he is, until your death, yours. And the tangle understands that. To alter Celleriant, it would have to alter you—and I think, in the end, that it is not possible to alter you without destroying you. If you die, it will be different.”
Jewel was watching Calliastra. “If immortals are unchanging, why is she . . .”
“I did not say we did not change. We are living beings.”
Calliastra was speaking to Shadow, who looked entirely too long-suffering. He treated her almost as he treated Ariel, and it was clear that she responded in kind. Jewel knew that Calliastra was the daughter of darkness and love. She understood the tragedy of that life, or thought she had.
But she had not seen Calliastra as this girl. This girl was . . . young. This girl could be joyful. This girl had yet to be broken by the knowledge of what love meant. What she loved, she killed. What she loved died. Always.
Jewel knew that fear. It had shadowed her adult life. “Will it change her again?” she asked softly.
“Will it? I do not know. Can it? Yes. It is the tangle, Terafin. If we could predict it, we could control it.”
“You’ve walked the tangle before.”
“Yes. Once.”
“Why?”
“Because it is only in the tangle that what I desired could be achieved. You have not moved.”
Jewel nodded. There was no place to put either of her feet; she had lifted both, and instinct gave her no clear path forward. Nor did it now allow her to take a step back.
Shadow hissed.
“What?”
“I’m bored. You’re boring.”
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