“While you live.”
“Will they kill me, then?”
“. . . No.”
A different thought struck Jewel. “Will they kill you?”
“I do not know,” Shianne replied. “I am mortal, but I am not without power. Do you understand why you need them? I did not speak to sway them; I spoke to convince them to allow you free passage, where it did not conflict with the White Lady’s command.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t believe you.”
A slender smile graced Shianne’s lips, illuminating her face. “You are growing in wisdom.” She turned to Celleriant. “Brother,” she said. “I leave it in your hands. Your experience with mortals is far greater than mine—and I suspect far greater than those who now serve one.” She indicated the Winter King.
The Winter King had not once removed eyes from the cats—Shadow in particular.
“In my hands?” Celleriant asked.
“It is you who will suffer. Tell her.”
But Jewel understood. If the men who served the Winter King came to Jewel, it was not by their will, but his; they served him—as Celleriant had first done—at the command of their White Lady, their Winter Queen. Celleriant, however, had offered Jewel his oath, and his service, while she lived.
And after? Jewel had assumed that he would return to Ariane. She saw, now, that was in question. The Allasiani could no more return to their Queen than they could return to life; they were demons now, and their home—when they weren’t summoned to wreak havoc—was the Hells. What would become of Celleriant?
He shook his head, his perfect features twisting in a brief, brief grimace, an echo of the familiar expression on mortal faces. “Do not offer me either your worry or your pity. I am the White Lady’s. I am as I was made to be. Shianne’s,” he continued, his voice breaking oddly on the syllables of her shortened name, “story of birth and creation has confused you. We are of her, we are of her in a way that no mortal may be of his or her parents. But we are not her. We have freedom of choice, of will. Had we not, there would be no war between my Lady and the Lord of the Hells; there would be no sleeping, sundered Princes. Do you understand?”
“As much as I understand anything immortal.”
“I made my choice, when I chose to enter a binding oath with you.”
“You are not oathbound,” Shianne said.
He did not correct her. Jewel felt the brief sting of cut across her palm, the shock of warmth and blood and determination returning as if she were wrapped physically in memory. What Celleriant did not do, she did not choose to do, but she knew Shianne was wrong. Instead, he smiled—at Jewel. “I will see the End of Days by your side and no other. I will see gods again. I have seen the tangle, where no one of my kin except the four walked willingly or openly. Things ancient and wild bow before you, and in their lee, I am a sapling. I am of her. She will be angry, perhaps—and cold—but she will not be surprised.”
“She isn’t here. They are.”
“By serving you, we find her,” he replied. “They will understand.”
“They had better.”
Shianne laughed. The sound was arresting, compelling; it drew all eyes, even those of the Winter King. He blinked, and blinked again, as if the laughter, and no part of her appearance, had awakened recognition at last. And why wouldn’t it? It was ice, it was perfect, brilliant, and shining, as if it had captured all the sun’s attention on the whole of a winter day.
His eyes swept down her face as if dragged toward her protuberant belly before he shook his head. But some hint of his obsession with the Winter Queen did not allow him to look away.
“There is a tale here,” she said, voice soft, but hard at the same time; it implied that it was not a tale of which he could partake.
“Who,” the Winter King asked of the Wild Hunt, “is she?”
Silence.
“You have not yet left my service. The bargain has not yet been struck. I will keep you in stone and darkness for eternity if you fail to answer me now.” He did not even look at the Arianni; he spoke without doubt. Even so, they did not choose to answer until Shianne briefly lowered her chin.
One man said, “She is Shandalliaran.” Which is what Jewel heard. But she heard, as well, other syllables, other songs; there was a depth to his voice that implied a chorus. Or a distant god.
It was the first and only time the Arianni would remind Jewel of her cats. The Winter King was not amused, but amusement had always seemed beyond him.
“It is,” Shadow sniffed. “But he is a king. He doesn’t need joy.”
“Kings don’t need joy?”
“What do you think?”
The Winter King ignored them both. He swept Shianne an impressive, supple bow. Jewel’s jaw would have hit sand had it not been attached to her face.
Careful, her own Winter King and domicis said in unison.
Why? He can’t see me. He sees nothing but her.
He is a power, Jewel. If you believe anything that transpires in his presence escapes his attention, you are a fool. The Winter King.
He has not lived as long as he has by being unaware.
They were wrong. And it was irrelevant.
His bow seemed to mollify Shianne, which was an odd thought. Or perhaps it wasn’t his bow; perhaps it was his command of the Wild Hunt—Shianne’s one-time kin.
“Will you tell me, Lady, why you have entered the tangle? For I perceive that you are at the center of the Sen’s journey.”
“I am woefully unfamiliar with both your Cities of Man and their Sen,” Shianne replied, “And I am not . . . what I once was. The tangle is not safe for such as I have become.”
“And was it ever?”
Her smile was almost warm. “You are bold, Winter King. Bold and yet graceful. I can see why she chose you.”
Please tell me he’s not blushing, Jewel said, to her internal council. Neither, however, dignified the comment with a response. He turned at once to the Arianni; whatever he said to them was inaudible, but it was clear that he had chosen to speak; their formation changed. He then offered Shianne his arm.
“Is that wise?” she asked, the smile still at play on her lips.
“Were I wise, Lady, I would not be here. Traversing the tangle is not trivial. It is not, however, impossible, as you have surely seen.”
Jewel felt Andrei’s hand grip her collarbone as if the Araven servant intended to break it. She understood that he desired silence, immediate silence, and although she was not Hectore, she obeyed. She trusted Andrei. She had trusted him from the first moment she had laid eyes on him, as a twelve-year-old orphan.
Rath had trusted him.
The thought of Rath in this place robbed her of breath. She struggled with the sudden, immediate sense of abandonment, of loss, as if the intervening years had never happened, as if she were not The Terafin, and not of that House; as if she had just been turned out of the last home she had shared with her blood-kin, when any of them had been alive.
Shadow growled. His voice shook the sand; Jewel had raised her hands above her waist, and stopped before she clapped them, instinctively, over her ears.
“Not here, you stupid, stuuuuupid girl. Never here.”
This a familiar voice added, is what you get when you let things run wild. Don’t you forget it, girl. It was her Oma’s voice. Disembodied but never fully dislodged from memory. And it steadied Jewel in a way that Andrei and Shadow could not. Her Oma was dead, long dead, but the words she had offered, the advice she had thrown like darts—or daggers—remained buried forever in Jewel’s thoughts.
Yes, Oma, she said, squaring her shoulders. Yes.
“Terafin,” Andrei said, mouth almost pressed to her ear, “we cannot remain here for much longer. What the Winter King has done is solid—more solid than almost any other incursion I have witnessed—but it is beginning to fray. If you will negotiate, you must do so quickly.” When she hesitated, he added, “You are likely to survive it. I most assuredly will. N
othing can kill Jarven,” his tone implied this was regrettable, “but Hectore will perish and so, too, your mortal kin. Decide.”
“I’ve already decided,” she whispered back. “But I’m not the only person here, and not the only person who has decisions to make.”
“You fail to understand. The Winter King is here because his is the only decision or desire he values; he can see no other.”
“And how are you here, then?”
Silence. Silence and one sharp, drawn breath that cut.
It was Hectore who answered. Hectore who had moved—against all wisdom and all orders—to stand by her side. No, not by hers, but by Andrei’s. “Andrei can see all others. The tangle doesn’t confuse him; in some fashion, he reflects it. It was once thought that this was his home, and his only home. He is not the Winter King; to leave, he had to focus on one desire, and one alone. But he hears and wants all things, Terafin. When he speaks of danger, you assume there is no danger to Andrei. So does he. His arrogance, I excuse; it is one of his sterling features. Yours, however, I cannot.
“It is Andrei who will be lost here.”
She started to argue. Stopped. Raised her voice. “Winter King.”
The silence that fell at her tone was instant. It was not a tone that could be ignored; it demanded attention. It spoke to power of power. She wondered how surprised those subject to it would be if they knew that at base, it was her Oma’s voice that guided her, not her experience in Terafin. She lifted a hand in den-sign; didn’t even watch for an answer. Angel came, as did Adam; they clustered in a small space that would grow more crowded with the passage of minutes.
Nor did the Winter King now ignore her voice. It did not surprise him as Shianne’s laughter had; he had presumed that Jewel was, as he, a power. In his eyes, she had merely removed the silk velvet gloves to reveal what he was certain lay behind them.
“You will either grant me what I have asked or continue your search on your own terms.”
“And if I choose to set my Hunt against you?”
“You will die.”
He raised a brow before his eyes narrowed.
“You lay down your life for the things that you value. I will lay down your life for the things I value. Your Hunt would serve my ends well, but with or without them, I will do what I must do.”
“They have hunted gods and godlings, little Sen.”
“They have been felled by cats,” she countered. “They have been felled by gods.”
“You think I am averse to risk?”
“No. You think I am. I’m not, but I won’t risk everything for a moment’s amusement; I find it self-indulgent.”
Jarven coughed.
“Power,” the Winter King said, “covers a multitude of indulgences. Is that not why you chose to become a power?”
“I was born Sen,” was her curt reply. “Power came to me; I did not seek it. But where we are given power, we are given responsibility.”
“I will know more of Shianne’s story.”
“No, you will not.”
Silence again. She could feel the uneasiness of her two internal advisers; it was too late for remonstration. She could almost see the magic that Avandar now invoked. It was the domicis who said, “You will be lost here. You do not serve the White Lady, Lachlaren; I do serve the Sen.
“She will not take what she cannot hold. The Hunt—some small part of it—is yours while you live. Decide.”
“Very well.” This time, when he spoke, Jewel could feel and hear the words.
Kill them.
• • •
She saw Shadow’s fur rise; she heard Night growl somewhere to the side. She saw Snow bunch on his haunches as if to leap, and she commanded, demanded, that he stop. Blue sword came, and blue shield—and only one of each was raised in her defense. Adam stumbled into her, as if accidentally; he placed a hand on her hand, his healer skin touching hers. He said nothing, signed nothing, did nothing else.
Behind her, she felt the earth begin to rumble. She heard Hectore’s swift, almost inaudible curse. And she saw, as well, the wings of shadowed darkness that were at the heart of Calliastra.
Terafin, be ready, the bard said. He was so diffident and so quiet she had all but forgotten him. She did not forget Terrick, who wielded his ax. Angel, however, had not drawn sword.
Shianne spoke and spoke loudly; none of her words were meant for the mortals present because none of them could understand her. Not even Jewel.
But the swords of the Wild Hunt did not waver.
Jewel held out the hand that Adam did not touch. It was not a command; she offered it palm up. Shianne’s eyes were the silver of polished steel. She glanced, once, at the Wild Hunt and then turned away, turned her back. Only then did the swords list slightly, but no words accompanied that minute motion. She walked away from the Winter King; he raised an arm to impede her progress, and she wheeled on him.
What she said to him, however, did not travel. After a brief moment, she did; she was glowing faintly, glowing gold, her white hair almost blonde in the magical light. Jewel was not surprised when she drew sword.
The Arianni were; the sword was golden.
Jewel was upset for an entirely different reason, but pent it decently behind closed lips. Shianne had joined the aerial combat against the storm serpent. She was pregnant, yes, but she was not helpless. Not human.
Mortal, Jewel thought, but never simply human.
“Terafin,” Avandar said.
“No.” Before he could speak again, she added, not that sword. Not here. To Hectore she said, “Do what you can to contain your servant.”
Hectore’s brows rose, as did the corners of his lips; it was a gallows smile, but there was humor in it.
• • •
The butterfly began to sing.
As if the song were spell, it killed all motion on the beach; only the sound of water could be heard at all; even breath was dimmed. Jewel glanced immediately to Kallandras, but the bard’s eyes were wide as he looked at the creature of spun glass and Artisan magic. It rose from his shoulder, shedding light that was both golden and white, and as it did, its wings spread. They were not wings such as Calliastra possessed; they did not widen until they implied something draconic in size.
But they widened enough that they might have been bird wings were the shape not so specific. All eyes fell upon the butterfly, even the Winter King’s.
Swords fell as the song continued, disappearing into thin air as all the Arianni weapons did when they were not required. Axes did not. Shianne turned toward the butterfly, her own sword fading; she lifted one white hand to the base of her throat, and her mouth opened—but it did not move.
What is it saying? Jewel demanded of her own Winter King. She had no doubt that he could hear what most of her party could not.
I pity you, was his strange reply. I am not man anymore; I have not been man for centuries except in the realm of dream. But you cannot hear, Jewel. You will never hear what we now hear.
I don’t care if I can hear it. Can the Winter King? The other one?
Of course. I will not tell you what I hear; I doubt I could, even had I the words to fully encompass it. Perhaps Shianne might—but later, if at all.
Jewel looked at Shianne and knew she could never ask. Instead, she turned to the Winter King.
“An interesting first attempt at negotiation,” she said, her voice as dry as Jarven’s might have been, had he chosen to speak. He did not. He did not appear to be aware that she’d spoken, either. As the Arianni and the Winter King were, he was transfixed by the butterfly. His eyes were wide, bright, his mouth slightly open. She had no doubt that this expression mirrored what he felt: shock, awe, astonishment.
As if aware of her—as if struggling to become so again—he closed his mouth, narrowed his eyes. But she had seen it: the slippage of a mask that was so perfectly controlled it was easy to wonder if anything else lay beneath it.
The Winter King was the first to reply, the only
one to make the attempt. He bowed—to Jewel, in full sight of those who bore his standard and willingly died in his service. “It might have been a glorious battle, Terafin. We will now never know. I grant you the command of the forces that have come into the tangle by my side. In return, I will seek the cats.”
“You will, eventually, find them,” she replied.
“Will I?”
“Yes. They will serve you until your death.”
Shadow yawned and flicked the underside of Jewel’s chin with the tip of a feathered wing.
“You cannot enforce that servitude as I can.”
“No, Winter King, I cannot. But I am Sen.”
The butterfly came, at last, to rest upon Jewel’s shoulder. It shed its light, its size, the power of voice, closing its wings as if exhausted.
“You are bolder than even I could imagine,” he told Jewel. “To have that upon your shoulder. But it is . . . fitting. When I return to my Lady, I will tell her the tale of our encounter. Perhaps she will make sense of it.”
“Or perhaps she will think it a consequence of your sojourn in the tangle.” She turned to the Arianni, who blinked. They did not need to steady themselves. “Come,” she told them.
“Where?” one asked. He was not armed or armored in a way that distinguished him, and his flawless, unlined features did not immediately suggest the seniority of age or command. But she recognized him: he was the man who had answered the Winter King’s question. He knew Shianne.
“My lands,” she said. She spoke with certainty although she felt none.
“Which City?” he asked.
“Averalaan,” she replied.
His frown made it clear that the name meant nothing to him. She was content with this ignorance. She would have been content were it to remain that way, but knew, knew, it would not.
Her biggest fear at the moment was the leash that remained in the hands of the Winter King. He had died, was dead, in her own time. The Arianni might cross the paths out of the tangle and arrive in the heart of her forest, her home. But they would arrive without the compulsion of the dead king’s command as their binding.
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