The Winter King’s narrowed gaze moved from that same wrist more slowly, traveling up her arm and to her gaze.
She offered him the stiff nod she might have offered any of The Ten; it was a gesture of wary respect among equals. This man thought he had none—and that was his problem, not hers.
Be wary, her own Winter King said.
This is wary, she replied.
As if he agreed with the stag, the Winter King’s gaze traveled past her own without acknowledging it; it came to rest upon the cats—and froze there.
Shadow hissed, the sound partway between laughter and disgust—but he meant both for this august stranger and his men.
And the men were, as Hectore had said, Arianni, all.
“Lord,” Celleriant said, the syllable tailing up in question.
She nodded, and he moved to stand in front of her, as he had not done for the entire trek through the tangle.
“It is seldom I encounter your kind outside of the Cities,” the stranger said, speaking to Jewel, failing to acknowledge the man who had drawn sword to protect her. But if he did not acknowledge Celleriant, he understood—who better?—that Celleriant served Jewel. This made Jewel the ruler, here.
Beyond her back, however, Shianne moved, her steps soft, light, and taken without permission—as if she knew the ground in this space made of Winter and mortal was, for the moment, solid.
And she spoke. She was mortal, she was pregnant, but her voice was the voice she’d been born with. Or created with. Jewel accepted that she did not now, and would probably never, understand the Arianni concept of birth. Shianne did not speak Weston, which only meant that her words were not for Jewel or her kin.
Celleriant, however, understood them. He did not lower his sword, but his wariness made clear his respect for the men gathered behind the Winter King. No, Jewel thought, for the Winter King himself.
The Winter King is the only mortal that the White Lady’s people willingly serve. Until you, the white stag added, almost as afterthought. But you are barely mortal.
She frowned; the frown remained in place. She wanted to ask this man if he remembered her, but already knew the answer. Time, it seemed, was of no more relevance to the tangle than geography, or anything else Jewel considered reality. The tangle had something to do with the gods, but the gods viewed time in as linear a fashion as their many followers.
Shadow turned his glare on her and let it sit there; he did not, however, call her stupid while the Winter King and the Arianni were present, and this, more than anything else, told her that they were a very real danger in the eyes of the cats.
Not that the cats were particularly respectful at the moment.
“It is seldom,” Jewel began, “that I venture—”
“She is Sen,” Shadow informed the Winter King, before she could finish.
The Winter King, however, nodded, his expression momentarily enlivened by what might have been surprise on the face of a lesser man. “That explains much.” When he turned to Jewel again, he offered her a bow. “You are far from your city.”
“Am I? The tangle is so unpredictable I might leave it and find myself in the streets of my own home at any time.” She knew that he thought of her city as one of the ancient Cities of Man and had no desire to disabuse him of the notion. But it made her uneasy, and that uneasiness had been growing with the passage of time—if that had any meaning now.
“Your companions,” the Winter King then said, indicating the cats, “are unusual.”
A hundred sarcastic comments attempted to escape Jewel’s mouth all at once; she managed to contain them. “. . . Yes.”
“Are they yours? They must be if you can keep them in the graveyard.”
“Graveyard?”
“It is oft called the tangle, for obvious reasons; it defies logic, it defies reality. But the reality of our lives—and our deaths—are not the realities of the lives of gods past. It is here, wherever here is, that the dead who cannot die dwell; their echoes alter landscapes. What remains in the wake of passing gods is very like their lives: ancient and wild. The mortal dead have no desire to destroy, no intent; if they can be found at all, it is not here.”
“No,” she said. “They can be found—” and then she stopped.
He watched her.
He watched her, and then turned to the Arianni who accompanied him. For the first time—for perhaps the only time since the immortal aide had appeared—he seemed unaware of his Lord’s presence. Unaware of anything but Shianne.
They did not speak.
Nor, after the first foreign syllables, did she.
They would not survive the tangle, Jewel thought. They could not; had they, Shianne’s state, her existence, would be known—and it would be known by the Arianni, known by Meralonne, known by Celleriant. Yet the Winter King would survive, must survive, for Jewel had seen what would become of him—a man who could not die, save at the hands of the Winter Queen; who ruled, deathless but unliving, in a castle of ice and glass.
“Do you dream, Sen?”
She had not given him her name; nor had he asked.
“Yes, as you must guess.”
“Did you dream of this?” His smile was wintry, but it added warmth to his face.
“I am dreaming of it now.”
“And these?” He indicated the cats.
“I first met them in a dream,” she told him. “A dream of the Winter King.”
“I had cats when I ruled mortals.” He glanced at her. “I had sons and daughters, as well. I did not have to kill my cats, except as an act of mercy. I lost a handful to poison.” He was silent for a long moment. “I dreamed,” he finally said. Before she could ask, he added, “Not of you, Sen. But of them.” She thought his smile both predatory and genuine.
Shadow hissed.
“They are yours.”
Night and Snow joined Shadow.
“I want them.”
This decreased the volume of hissing. Had Jewel been the cats, it would have had the opposite effect—but clearly, they were flattered, and that had always been their weakness.
“I have seen nothing like them. In my time, I have seen the whole of the ancient world by my Lady’s side—and apart from it. I have seen the firstborn. I have seen the gods. But I have not seen your companions’ like in my many travels, and I finally understood that it was here that I must come.”
“Only fools travel into the tangle of their own volition,” Calliastra now said.
His expression chilled. The silent Winter guard became far less still as Calliastra stepped into the space between the two: Sen and Winter King. She was no longer a bruised urchin; she was no longer the Avatar of the god they did not name. She existed in the wide range of space that separated them—but her eyes were lidded, almost lazy; her hair was a spill of perfect, lush night.
“And yet you are here, Firstborn.”
The Arianni shifted formation; they might have formed up in front of the Winter King had he not lifted a hand. He spoke no word, uttered no command, but the gesture was enough.
“You are aware of the danger with which you travel?” he asked Jewel.
“Of several, yes.”
“She is not in the danger you are,” Calliastra added, her voice sharper. It would never be shrill; it would never be less than compelling. Not as she was now. And the now, Jewel thought, felt eternal, as if it were Calliastra’s only truth. It wasn’t. But she was the scion of gods, and the moment, the present, almost overwhelmed the memory of other aspects, other faces. What she was now was complete.
“I am not in any danger,” the Winter King replied. “I am Ariane’s King, as you well know.” He had subtly shifted his stance; his hand had fallen to the hilt of a weapon, invisible until that moment beneath the careful drape of cloak.
“Do you think that means you are free of danger?” Calliastra’s eyes were black. She raised her arms, and her wings—which had been no more than looming shadow since they had entered the tangle, when they we
re visible at all—rose with them, polished obsidian.
The Winter King remained unruffled; his men, Arianni all, did not. Swords were drawn in the stillness of a sandy clearing. The Wild Hunt should have looked ridiculous on what was, essentially, a beach or a sandbar. They didn’t.
“I cannot kill you,” Calliastra said. “But there are many fates which might cause a man to long for, to beg for, death. Ask Viandaran.”
And the Winter King turned, Calliastra and her threat momentarily forgotten, he was so certain of himself. His eyes did widen. “Warlord.”
Avandar offered a very grim nod to the Winter King. “Did we not desire,” he asked, voice soft, “eternity?”
“You achieved it.”
He nodded again. “You understand the bitter disappointment children can be—especially when they must be put down, as any threat must eventually be. I am not seer-born; that was not my particular burden to bear. But you will understand the burden of eternity, near the end, old friend. You will understand why mortals were never meant to achieve it.”
“Will I?”
“You will.”
“Why are you here? Why are you dressed like that?”
“The City, which was my home, fell.”
Jewel turned then, remembering. She did not say why it fell although she knew. She could not even feel that it deserved better, given the rulers and their abuse of the power they wielded. But the fall of the city had not killed only the rulers. Everyone in it had perished. People who had as much say as Jewel had had at ten years of age. People who had less.
“And you come to the tangle seeking power for vengeance?”
“No. I am servant to the Sen.”
A pin dropping into soft sand might still have been perfectly audible in the silence that followed. “I would laugh,” the Winter King finally said, “but you are serious.”
“I am.”
“And are you then oathbound?”
“I am bound by my own oath, yes. But I have long valued my own desires and choices more highly than a god’s.”
“And you did not demand that he swear a binding oath?” the Winter King asked Jewel, Calliastra ignored or forgotten.
“No. I am mortal. I grew up in the lowest of city streets. I made mistakes. I survived them. If I understand the oathbond, it has no room for mistakes and allows none. Failure is absolute, and failure is death.”
“It is not death,” Avandar said. “Not always.”
Jewel didn’t ask. She wondered—had often wondered—how many different ways Avandar had attempted to end his own life, but that was neither her business nor her immediate problem.
“I would never swear a binding oath,” she continued. “I could not therefore demand that anyone who follows me do what I am unwilling to do.”
The Winter King looked confused for the first time.
He is, the great stag said, sounding far more amused than he had in a while. What you say makes no sense at all to him. And no, Jewel—were I in his position, it would make no sense to me either. I have served you at her command, and I have come to understand your life and the way it defines the choices you make. He has not, and will not, have that experience.
They will die here, Jewel replied, indicating the Arianni.
Yes. They will die, or they will be lost. They entered the tangle at the behest of the King, but they did not leave it. Only he did. And they are not your problem; do not seek to make them so. They are not your Lord Celleriant. They are not, in my estimation, Illaraphaniel. Do not attempt to warn them, he added. They will not serve you. They will give you nothing of themselves, and you require that gift to function as ruler. I did not.
The warning she considered had nothing to do with their survival. Shianne, who had stepped between the Winter King and Jewel, now approached them. The Winter King’s gaze grazed her face, her obviously pregnant belly, and moved away as if she were of no consequence and very little interest.
She spoke a name. Jewel recognized it only because one of the Arianni, so grim-faced, so perfect, turned at the series of cascading syllables she spoke. The Wild Hunt was silver and white, but it seemed to Jewel that there was a shift of pallor across his features. What he saw in Shianne the Winter King did not see. Perhaps could not see.
The Arianni spoke. He spoke her name. And at the sound of her name, fully half of the gathered Hunt turned. If cacophony could be utterly silent, this was cacophony.
The Winter King noticed. Everyone did. His gaze moved back to Shianne, but, even so, he did not see what the Arianni did. He didn’t see what Jewel herself saw, having met the Winter Queen only a handful of times.
You are Sen, the white stag said. Of all her company, he alone failed to appear.
But—but he’s the Winter King. He serves—
He does not serve.
He’s the Winter King.
You have never understood the heart of Winter.
Fine. He loves the Winter Queen.
His silence made clear that he was annoyed. You of all people should understand, he finally said. There is no artifice in her—for us. There is danger, there is the promise of death; it is inherent in her affection. She is bitter, cold, harsh; she is as grand and glorious as the ancient vistas the gods so casually destroyed.
And, Jewel? She cannot be killed. I lost wives, in my youth. I was not foolish enough to believe they loved me—that word is not for men like us. But they were fond of me, and in reward for that folly, they died. Not all of the deaths were quick. The children that I was not forced to put down died. Those who were powerful enough to survive my enemies were powerful enough to become them.
But she is all things: enemy, lover, rival. And no hand, save perhaps our own, will end her. You do not worry about Viandaran because he wants death. You do not worry about Celleriant because you believe, viscerally, that he cannot be taken from you by anything trivial. You do not profess to love them, even in the privacy of your thoughts—but you trust them in a way that you do not trust the people you do love. You are afraid, always, of loss. You are afraid of death. You are afraid to leave them because you believe that your presence preserves their lives.
Silence. A beat. Two.
I was never weak in the fashion you are weak. I would not have survived it. I learned, early, not to love as you love; to love is to despair. You will not learn that lesson. Perhaps in some fashion you are strong; I cannot see it. You are a power, even if you do not choose to acknowledge it. For one such as we, she is safe to revere.
And she would kill.
If she can, yes. But we are worthy, all, to stand and face her; she would not choose a Winter King who was not. That is the nature of Winter.
And Summer?
I was not Summer King. But she gives willingly to the Summer King what she cannot give in Winter. And the Summer King can give what we cannot. But there is a reason that Winter reigned so long in the Hidden Court, the hidden world. No Summer has lasted so long, no matter that she desires it.
And Jewel? I do not believe that it is wise to let Shianne continue to speak.
Jewel turned. Shianne had fallen silent after speaking a name, or names. Or so she’d believed; she had heard nothing further.
She speaks, the Winter King said softly. Perhaps only those who belong to the White Lady can hear her voice. Ah, no. The bard can hear her, too.
What is she saying?
She is telling her former brethren about the Winter Queen’s fate.
Gods.
Chapter Nineteen
IF SHIANNE’S VOICE WAS inaudible, the response of the Arianni was not. Swords struck shields. They ringed the Winter King, but—and this was strange—the Winter King did not seem to hear Shianne’s words; he was as much of an outsider in this regard as Jewel herself.
“What,” he said to Jewel, the texture of his voice the season of his title, “have you done?” It was a reminder that threat could be expressed in the softest of voices.
Jewel had long learned that I don’t kn
ow was not an acceptable response from a leader, even if it was the truth. Only with her den did she say it, and this man would never, ever be among their number. But there were other gambles she might take; other avenues she might pursue.
Winter King.
Into the clearing, the great white stag came. He walked slowly, head high, tines casting odd shadows against the sun-drenched beach; his hooves did not touch the ground. He did not acknowledge the reigning Winter King, and the look he gave the woman who was theoretically his master was almost the definition of simmering resentment.
“I have done nothing,” Jewel then told the reigning Winter King. “You have seen my companions. Did nothing strike you as unusual?”
He said, “Your winged cats, of course.”
“And beyond that?” She pressed, aware that at least one of the three was purring loudly. Probably Night.
“That you are foolish enough to travel with Calliastra. That you are accompanied by one of the White Lady’s people.” He did not mention Avandar.
“Nothing else?”
Men of power did not, as Jewel had not done, acknowledge ignorance.
“You cannot hear her,” Jewel continued, as if she herself could.
One of the Winter King’s men turned to Jewel then. His eyes were silver light, his weapon a brilliant blue that almost hurt to gaze upon. “What,” he demanded, “have you done?” Although there was Winter in his voice, there was also rage and the heat of it; the combination was striking. It was not comforting.
No impulse moved her to speech. No certainty gave her confidence. She exhaled, but tension kept her spine rigid. She turned to meet the hostile gaze of her own Winter King, and told him, I think we need them.
His anger at her stupidity was instant, searing, silent.
He doesn’t recognize you.
No. He is Winter King. We, none of us, accepted our fate. We accepted the Winter Queen’s offer because we felt we could best her. Those in the long line who had failed before us were irrelevant; we believed ourselves to be stronger.
He was stronger, Jewel said quietly, than any that preceded him.
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