Avandar was likewise still, likewise pale, and if his gaze did not drift up, and up again, until the whole of his throat was exposed, it rose far higher than either Teller’s or Finch’s had.
“Jay?” Finch had found her own voice. Jay wasn’t looking at the fountain, if that’s what it even was.
The woman who was Terafin shook her head. “Fabril made this,” she said softly, so softly.
This did draw Calliastra’s attention. “How did you transport it?”
“I didn’t. When the change happened, it was here. Or rather, it revealed itself. It did not exist as part of The Terafin’s personal chambers—”
“Until you became The Terafin.”
Gaze averted, she said, “Come on, let’s go look for my books.”
But even books were not, for a moment, a strong enough incentive for Teller, whose eyes, wide and unblinking, were attached to the fountain as if it were becoming a physical part of him.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The Hidden Wilderness
THE BEAR CONTINUED TO run until the moment Carver stumbled. He fell, arms forward as if to stop himself from hitting ice, but came to rest against the gray of night snow.
Ellerson dragged him to his feet, which was necessary. Carver was only barely conscious. The domicis looked at the bear’s golden back, and then turned toward the moonlight again; the moon had lowered itself toward the horizon, paling as it did. Framed by the moon, Ellerson could see their pursuer; it was a wonder that the advantage of flight had not yet allowed him to catch them.
Or perhaps catching them immediately was not his intent.
Through wings, glints of moonlight could be seen; Ellerson thought the demon’s wings were torn. Perhaps they had been damaged in the confrontation with the Wild Hunt. In theory, the Wild Hunt in this place was memory, no more—but that memory had injured Carver, drawing blood. Here, if one consented, if one believed, the damage memory could do was not merely figurative.
The bear growled, the growl forming words that were more felt than heard. Ellerson looped an arm around Carver, taking on most of his weight. He did not glance back again. While the bear ran, he followed, but the bear gained distance; Ellerson could not run for two, and his attempts to rouse Carver failed.
“We must stop,” the domicis finally said, putting action to words.
“You will die if we stop.”
“We will die if we don’t.”
The bear looked over his shoulder and growled; the growl shook the earth. Ice broke beneath enchanted boots, cracks stretching out in all directions, as if something slumbering beneath the ancient snow was finally waking.
“That wasn’t me!” the bear shouted.
Ellerson grimaced as ice continued to crack, the sound of its breaking growing fainter as the distance grew larger. “Is it relevant?”
“It is very relevant!”
“Tell me how, then. It is clearly occurring, regardless.”
“It is relevant because I will not kill you. I will not bury you.”
“Ah.” Ellerson exhaled. “Has the demon’s presence awakened the earth?”
“Not just the presence of the forsworn, no.” The bear glared at Carver. “If you and I were to flee this place and leave him here, the earth would wake regardless. The creature you call a demon might not be enough to wake the earth on its own—ah, no.” He shook his head; beads of water flew. “It is what remains of Darranatos. The earth would for him.”
“But you think Master Carver is responsible for this.”
The bear snorted. “And you don’t?”
Ellerson did not reply. The leaf concerned him now. Shadow’s words concerned him. Master Carver could lie; he was not particularly scrupulous about honesty. But he chose to lie when the lies themselves were trivial.
The leaf had come to him from Jewel’s hands. Ellerson was certain of it. Jewel had walked these lands; she had walked them in her sleep, in her dreams. Her dreams were not—had never been—the dreams or nightmares that plagued the rest of the den. Not until now.
But the control she had over her dreaming self was not the control she had developed, through trial and error, during her tenure as ATerafin, and Terafin. It was not the control she expected to exert over her waking self. Had she given this leaf to Carver while awake—while they were both awake—it would not have troubled Ellerson at all.
Had Shadow not appeared so briefly, he would still remain untroubled. He would be certain that the leaf itself was meant for Carver, had been meant for Carver. But this leaf had been, if he understood all that had happened, created in dream.
And Shadow had strongly implied that were Jewel not dreaming, she would never have created the leaf; she would never have allowed it to be created. It was of, and not of, her forest in some fashion. What she understood while dreaming was not real, in some fashion, to Jewel.
The leaf, however, was real.
Three things, I heard, while I slept. The first was the name of the Winter Queen. The second was the voice of the dead. And the third was the voices of those who are trapped. The first two, Ellerson knew; ring and demon. But the third?
Jewel was afraid. She had been afraid for some time. Ellerson had seen the shadows of that fear when they had first met, half her life ago. But he had seen, as well, the shadows cast by the talent to which she’d been born. He’d understood, on that long-ago day, that he could not serve her as domicis. It was not lack of desire on his part, and no lack of commitment, either; she was raw and rough, but she was worthy, in her entirety, of the service he could provide. Had it been only her worthiness that was in question, he might have signed a contract that demanded the rest of his life and considered himself blessed.
But he had not been a young man, at the time; he’d had far too much experience with men—and women—of power. He had understood that what Jewel needed, what she would need, he could not provide. He knew that she would face assassins as knowledge of her power grew, and knew, as well, that that knowledge would inevitably grow. Jewel Markess had one outstanding, undeniable advantage to offer the House. Any House. But she had come to Terafin.
And in Terafin, she had remained.
He had watched her from afar. He had listened to reports offered—stiffly and resentfully—by the domicis who had replaced him. He had, twice, almost broken guild laws, in the first year, to attempt to explain why he had made the choice that was not, in any real sense, a choice.
As her power grew, as her position within Terafin solidified, he had seen proof of that. It had vindicated what, to the young ATerafin, had seemed callous desertion on Ellerson’s part. And when the den had come to Ellerson with an unusual proposal for the guildhall, Ellerson had accepted.
It was to the den that he now owed his service, but the den served The Terafin. They served Jewel. First as kin, and second as ATerafin. The bonds between these erstwhile orphans and urchins had clearly solidified over the years, their boundaries almost unchanged, their duties codified by the former Terafin’s authority and desire.
Jewel had come into contact with men and women of influence and power, but she had not deserted the family she had built. She would not. Was that, then, why she had given the leaf to Carver?
He could not ask; Carver was in no condition to answer, if he could hear the question at all. But he could infer. Jewel had somehow met Carver; she had come to him here. And here Carver remained. Could she, she would have taken Carver with her. Ellerson knew what the loss of Carver would do to the den and to their leader.
But she had come to Carver, and Carver had given her the only item of value he possessed. He no longer wore the locket around his neck; it was in Jewel’s hands now.
Which meant, to Ellerson—and probably to Carver as well—that Jewel had had no intention of taking Carver home. If it were possible, she would have done it. If it were possible but costly, she would have done it, unless the cost itself was too high. She was no longer an urchin in the poor holdings; her responsibilities were larger,
their weight heavier.
And yet, he thought, even so, she would not let go of Carver unless the cost could be measured in the lives of the rest of her den.
She had left Carver the leaf, the carrying of which appeared—to Ellerson’s eyes—to be consuming him. Carver was hers, but he was not her; what she might carry without awareness, he could not. And if he were not meant to carry such a weight, what was its purpose? Why had Shadow appeared?
“We must stop,” Ellerson said again. He dragged Carver toward the trunk of the nearest large tree, and positioned the younger man’s back against it. He then dropped his pack, opened it, and withdrew one of the two blankets that had been crafted for their use.
He set that blanket upon the snowy ground, and then moved Carver so that Carver lay across its length, the colors of the fabric muted by the evening sky.
The bear turned then. “It is—what do they call it? Ah, I remember—your funeral.” But he cocked his head to the side. “What do you have there? Why are you carrying that?”
Ellerson did not reply. The cloak Carver wore protected him from cold; the blanket might seem superfluous. But Carver needed rest. He needed—if it were possible—some respite from the burden he had unknowingly accepted.
It was not his, the domicis thought. It was not his burden to bear. Jewel had left it, regardless. The older man straightened his shoulder as a stray breeze touched his face, touched more than his face; the tree almost directly at his back seemed to creak and strain toward that breeze, which touched little else.
Ellerson then removed food from the pack, noting what remained as he did. “Master Carver.”
Carver stirred.
“It is time for breakfast.”
Carver turned his back to Ellerson and reached for illusory covers. The domicis smiled as his hands closed on air.
“We do not have time for theatrics, I’m afraid.”
Carver’s eyes opened a crack. They opened to sunlight.
Sunlight.
The bear trundled over to the blanket; he growled. Ellerson realized belatedly that the wordless growl was actually a request. “There is room,” the domicis said, “but the blanket was not meant for a creature of your size.”
The bear then shrank. “It’s not convenient,” he told Ellerson, “to continue to switch like this. It takes energy.” He eyed the food.
“The food was meant for—”
“You, yes, yes. Clearly. I cannot imagine what favors you did the Lords of these lands, that they would gift you in such a fashion. It is not a terrible idea,” he added. “If you must rest.” He stepped onto the blanket, once again the slightly round, bushy-tailed creature he had first been when he had interrupted them. His eyes narrowed. “Sunlight!”
“I . . . had not expected that,” Ellerson confessed. “But the area the blanket covers seems to create its own season.”
“It does. Or rather, it is its own season. It has been cut and parceled from another time and woven into these threads. Here, were the denizens of these lands truly awake, it would be of great interest, great value, should you desire to trade it.”
“Or should they desire to steal it?”
“Such gifts are not easily stolen, and the attempt to do so may be quite costly. You should have told me you possessed this. It would have made some decisions a bit simpler.”
Carver sat slowly, staring at the creature. “. . . I guess it wasn’t a dream.”
“It is all a dream, of a kind,” the creature replied. “This will not protect you from the dead,” he added. “. . . not entirely.”
Above their heads, the branches of the great tree drooped toward them. Ellerson looked up to see buds struggle to become leaves.
“It was a good choice,” the creature continued.
Carver shook his head. “Look, we can’t just call you ‘bear’ or ‘it’ or whatever. What are you called?”
The furry creature nodded, a vague air of approval in his gaze. “I am called Anakton by those permitted to call me at all.”
Carver shook his head, stretched his arms, and yawned. “I feel like I’ve been sleeping for less than an hour.”
“Much less,” Anakton then said. “You look better. But you would. It is not Winter, here, not truly.” He seemed to relax. “He will come, regardless. But we may have some help here.” He waddled up to the trunk of the tree, lifted a much smaller paw, and batted the tree’s dark bark.
It had no obvious effect. “If these lands are dream lands,” Ellerson began.
“They are,” Anakton said, without turning.
“How come you to be here?”
“I was here before.”
“Before?”
“Before they became subject to dream and the dreaming,” Anakton replied. “The Lord of these lands was not always asleep—and it seems he will not remain so. But he has slept the long, long Winter, and we have slumbered with him, who were trapped here when the gods decreed punishment.
“Of far more interest is why you are here. You are not creatures of the dreaming, and those mortals who did exist in these lands—and they were few, if favored—perished here when sleep descended. It is not safe for mortals.”
No, Ellerson thought, it was not.
“Was it safe for mortals when the Lord was awake?”
Anakton chuckled. “If you were one of the favored few, yes. But you are not. And the rings you wear are not his rings; they are hers. They will not save you here.”
“No.” Ellerson turned his gaze toward the winter forest, the winter moon. To his surprise, he could now see neither.
“This selfish tree,” Anakton said, as if divining the problem, “is not like many of the others; it is older, and its roots are more deeply planted. You have brought some hint of Summer with you, and it desires to keep the entirety of that Summer to itself. Were it awake—fully awake—this would be less of an issue. You are lucky.”
Carver snorted.
“The dead would be upon you now were you not, boy.”
“If I were lucky, I wouldn’t be here at all.”
“Ah, perhaps not. But if you were very unlucky, you wouldn’t be here, either.” He glanced once over his small golden shoulder. “And that luck will run out, one way or the other. You carry your death with you here.”
Ellerson signed. Carver saw the gesture and nodded, but did not sign in return.
“We cannot fight both tree and demon at the same time,” Ellerson began.
“You cannot fight either,” Anakton snapped. “And in truth I am surprised that the dead have come here at all. What you carry must be of significance, boy, even to the dead. Or, perhaps, especially to the dead. Tell me, what has happened in the worlds beyond since I went to sleep?”
“I only know of ours,” Carver replied. “And not all of that, either.”
“I see. Ah. There. You hear that?”
They did—or Ellerson did.
Clever. Very clever.
“We will have some small time, and we must use it. Or rather, I must use it. But I am restless here, and the tree is being stubborn. Tell me what has happened in the outer world. Or in yours, since it appears you believe there is only one.”
4th day of Lattan, 428 A.A.
Terafin Manse
Adam woke to the sound of knocking on his door in the West Wing. Shadow’s eyes were a golden glow in the darkness; Ariel was asleep, as Adam had been. He rose slowly under the cat’s watchful eyes and startled when the cat hissed. That hiss shifted into what passed for laughter from the cats.
“Do not wake her,” Shadow said.
Adam glanced at Ariel and nodded. In this, at least, the gray cat and he agreed. He dressed in the dark, which caused more hissing; the sound was muted. Ariel slept.
Adam wondered, as he sometimes did, if she had a home to return to; he knew why Jewel had accepted her but knew as well that this was not home to her. It had become home to Adam, a second home; he yearned for the first, but he understood why he could not yet return.
The Matriarch waited.
• • •
Only when he stepped into the hall did he list, allowing the wall to take some of his weight. He was exhausted, and his arms trembled if he did not put effort into keeping them still. Above his head, the magelights used so freely in the West Wing glowed, but the glow was dim.
He turned to the Terafin Matriarch and froze. It was not she who had knocked on his door. Standing less than a yard away was Evayne, her robes curling in a motion that was almost a tremor around her feet.
He bowed to her, Southern style; she returned a nod of respect. He could not invite her into his room; Shadow disliked her, and even had that not been an issue under normal circumstances, Ariel was asleep. He glanced toward the end of the hall. The great room in the West Wing was often used by the den for conversations of import.
She did not speak; nor did Adam. But he turned and headed toward the great room, and she followed.
• • •
Adam started a fire. It was not strictly necessary, but the fire in this room meant it was in use; it was, like food or water in the South, an emblem of hospitality. Nor did Evayne tell him that it wasn’t required; she watched while he worked. He watched in return, although his gaze was more frequently broken.
This Evayne was not the Evayne he had first met; nor was she the Evayne he had spoken with at much greater length during his stay in the Oracle’s domain. But the robes were the robes he had carried to her, and he thought it likely that she still wore the birthday gift that had been given to her in such dire circumstances. Her eyes were the same violet, but her expression was older; her eyes were lined in the corners, her lips thinner.
There was no hint of tears. This woman, the one who stood before him now, waiting as fire’s light began to illuminate the room, was harder, colder, stronger. But she would be: she was older. Youth and its fear had been burned away by the fires of experience.
He knew that the Evayne he had met a handful of subjective days ago must become the Evayne who had come for him in the Sea of Sorrows—but that Evayne had given way, again, to this one. And this one, he thought, might one day be a match for Yollana of the Havallan Voyani. It was not a comforting thought.
Firstborn Page 64