She had no desire to see those weapons again. “To whom am I expected to kneel?”
“To Lord Ishavriel of the Fist of God, Duke of the Hells.”
She turned and glanced over her shoulder.
“Do not look for aid, little mortal. You are lost here, and you have been found.”
“No,” she replied, voice low. “I’m not lost. Don’t you recognize this, Lord Ishavriel? You’re on my turf, now.”
His midnight brows rose over his perfect eyes; his lips tilted briefly at a smile. “These paths were not created for—or by—mortals. You aspire to much. But you are—as so many of your kind—out of your depth here.”
The cats circled in utter silence. His expression rippled in a frown. “Leave,” he told them, the single word quiet and so deep Jewel wanted to obey it herself.
The white cat hissed in reply.
“I do not know how you came to be here. If you will not—or cannot—leave, that is your choice and your folly; interfere with me here and it will be your destruction.” He raised a hand and pointed at the tree of many leaves. Fire left his fingers, but not in a bolt; flames flickered and circled in the air as if they were vines. They reached out, twisting and turning through that air, as if burrowing through something invisible toward the tree’s trunk.
Lord Ishavriel’s brows rose again, but this time when they fell, they fell across narrowed eyes. “So,” he said.
Jewel could never say why she did what she did next: She lifted the hands that contained the three leaves this one tree had returned to her keeping. They glowed like magelights in the darkness.
“This is how your kin came to Terafin,” she said, voice a Winter voice. “You walked.” Heat melted ice and snow; heat of rage. She had learned not to rail against death; it was pointless and it hurt the people around her. Death was faceless and impersonal; it came, in the end, whether it was wanted or no.
But not this death.
Not these creatures.
Was he immortal? Yes. And beautiful. So far above her comprehension that she shouldn’t have dared to raise hand against him. But she did; she wanted to raise so much more.
“What are you doing?” the demon Lord demanded, shedding shadow as naturally as the three leaves now shed light. No, not just the three; all of the leaves on the tree.
This Lord was her enemy. She felt the truth profoundly; it was so large she’d no words big enough to encompass it. He—or his kin—had come through her gardens, through her grounds; they had passed by her shrines and beneath the eyes of the most watchful and suspicious of men.
Fire burned in the dark air; fire reached for the trunk of the tree. She felt it; saw the lone tree the cats had called hers as if it were natural. She lifted the leaves higher and as she did she felt it: the evening breeze, its chill a balance to the heat of fire. It felt familiar, although it wasn’t the wind that carried Celleriant; nor was it the wind that had carried the Senniel master bard, Kallandras.
No. This was a sea breeze. A sea breeze in Henden, heavy with the promise of storm and salt, humid even in the dryness. She could taste it on her lips and her tongue, and it was blessedly familiar; the winds in the desert had had none of her life in them. The wind tugged at the leaves in her hands and she gave them over to its keeping. Hands now empty she made her way toward the tree under the watchful gaze of the man who had called himself a Duke of the Hells.
She placed one palm against the tree, and it was familiar in the same way the breeze had been. It was not the tree in which Celleriant had almost ended his ancient existence; that had been the tree’s dream of itself; she understood that now, the insight as sharp as any vision that had ever moved her to action. But the tree was waking. So, too, was Jewel Markess ATerafin.
She reached out for the fire. It was hot—she’d expected that. But hot or no, it didn’t actually burn her. Lord Ishavriel’s expression etched itself into memory—and it was a memory that would bring her comfort for as long as it remained. The fire stopped moving, but it kept its shape: twisting vines. Where it touched Jewel’s fingertips, those vines budded, and the buds burst into crackling red-orange leaves. Leaves this color she’d seen all her life, as the seasons turned. The seasons passed much more quickly now that she was no longer five or six. But they came, regardless, and in the Autumn, the leaves’ final burst of color was fanfare. It promised Winter. But it was born from the promise of Spring, was birthed the moment the branches budded. Spring, beginning, youth and growth; Autumn, end, but oh, the beauty of it.
The tree reached out as Jewel did, and it touched those burning, flickering leaves, those echoes of the Autumn of her youth; a branch grew that was the shape and the color of fire.
“It wasn’t the leaves,” Jewel said softly, to darkness and air.
“No,” the gray cat agreed.
The fire left Lord Ishavriel’s hands in a rush, leaping toward the tree, where it twined, leaves blooming. The bark beneath it didn’t burn; instead, the tree began to absorb the fire and the heat, just as it had absorbed one red leaf.
The white cat dared to hiss, and this time, when fire left the demon Lord’s hands, it looked like red lightning. The cat dodged, but the fire had singed its fur.
The wind rose as Jewel watched.
She lifted her voice and she called; the Winter King came down the path at her back. She couldn’t see him immediately because she didn’t turn, but he was silver now, presence of moonlight, his tines gleaming like leaves—Winter leaves. He reached her side and lowered his head; she touched the tips of his antlers, no more. She’d no intention of mounting. Nor did he kneel to allow it; he waited, his eyes still blue, his gaze upon the demon.
The demon drew his sword in response. It came from no sheath she could see, forming instead, full and whole, in his hand. His hair rose in a wind that seemed to be moving in a different direction from the wind she now felt. She knew that to leave the tree would be to stand in the same wind that moved that hair; it was also death.
Do you see the path, Jewel? the Winter King asked, his voice soft.
She looked at the ground beneath her feet. There had been roots there moments before; she’d almost tripped over at least three of them. They were gone, now. What remained in their wake were familiar cobblestones. They were worn, just as a footpath is, by the passage of so many feet across their surface; they were even cracked in places. She saw the shadows of familiar weeds; the weeds themselves were absent.
“I see it.”
Do you understand it?
“Does it matter?” She shook her head, and curls adjusted their fall to land in her eyes. “I know where I am. I’m home. Even here, I’m home.” Lifting her voice, she said, “Go back. Go back to the Hells or wherever it is you call home these days.”
In reply, the demon Lord lifted his sword and brought it down, blade first, into the path. The cobblestones shifted—they had to; the ground beneath them shuddered as if it was about to break. Roots lifted themselves from their dirt moorings; leaves fell from the height of distant branches.
The wind took them, gathering them with a flourish that made their descent more a dance than a fall. She watched as they swirled; not even Lord Ishavriel’s presence could force her gaze away. Diamond tips brushed her cheeks; gold caught a moment in her hair. But the white-edged leaves of the Common’s symbolic forest caressed her forehead like velvet. Like familiar hands.
Lord Ishavriel lifted his sword again, and this time, he brought it down against…air. It shuddered to a halt as red lightning spread in a fan around its edge. The Winter King’s head rose; his forehooves lifted as he reared. Jewel shook her head, her hand still on the tree.
“You were right,” she told the gray cat.
“Of course I was right. About what?”
“There aren’t enough trees.” She smiled. The leaves rose above her head in a hollow column. For a moment they looked like butterflies. They left the folds of the twisting wind, heading in different directions, fluttering as a stray gust b
lew them back. She watched them the way she had once watched the light shows governed by the magi on the Day of Return. Some spread beyond whatever barrier kept Lord Ishavriel at bay, and he destroyed them, his fire consuming and melting them as they struggled.
But he could not destroy them all; the winds carried them to and fro, where not even he could gather them. Nor did they seek just the air above the demon; they sought the forest behind Jewel’s back—and in greater number. Silver wings, golden wings, echoes of moonlight and sunlight, found purchase and haven along the trunks of standing shadows—the trees she could only barely see and had not yet touched.
She said to the cat, “I’m dreaming.”
The cat licked its paw and said nothing. But the Winter King said, No.
Yes, she replied. But I’ve always had dreams. Sometimes they can change little bits of the world, that’s all.
It is not the dreams that have changed them, Jewel. It is you.
She shook her head. If the world could be changed that easily, it wouldn’t be my world. She thought of the holdings, of the orphans, of the farmers and the tavern owners and the merchants, big and small. Of the living, and of the dead. Her dead. So many people whose lives she would save if she could change them just by dreaming. So many deaths she’d erase. She’d dreamed about making those changes for most of her life.
No?
But the world was the world. Life was life, death was death. There were no guarantees, had never been any—there was struggle, and sometimes, there was triumph. Sometimes there was just bleak loss. Yet out of loss, the den had built its opposite, over the years. Out of sorrow, they’d learned—as if such lessons were needed—to appreciate joy. They remembered pain, yes; it rooted them. It grounded them. But it was the hope and the joy that sustained them.
No. Those people, that world—it’s real. It’s real and it turns so slowly you might never notice it’s moving at all. But I need it. It defines me. It’s who I am. The demon’s sword struck air again, its descent frustrated by things unseen. She could feel the edge of its blade as if it were a distant pressure. Distant, inexorable. I’m dreaming, here. Dreaming. It’s not a nightmare, not yet. But, it’s my damn dream.
Sometimes, she said again, I dream of gods.
She felt the sword fall, and saw that this time it had fallen farther, faster. And why wouldn’t it, after all? A demon Lord had no part in her world except as a vulture; these lands were made for all of the creatures like him.
But this particular patch of strange, immortal land overlapped the life she knew. It touched her home. It was as much hers as his.
No. It was more hers than his. It was here that she’d dreamed and cried and slept and ate; here that she’d loved and feared and raged. It was here that she’d given the vow that would define the rest of her life.
“Lord Ishavriel,” she said, her hand now gripping the tree’s bark, “you are not in your lands anymore. You’re in mine, and I don’t want you here. Go home.”
As she spoke, the surrounding trees upon which the leaves—her leaves—had settled began to glow; some were silver, some were gold, and some were hard, harsh diamond, warm ice. They grew into their light, gaining the height, the majesty, and the shapes that she knew so well.
His wind flew at their heights; his wind tore at their leaves. Jewel smiled as those leaves were rent from branches. “It’s no good,” she told him, understanding for just this moment why.
The leaves blew in his storm, but they came to settle on different trunks, different trees, and they took root there, just as the first flying leaves had done. There, in the darkness, transformation began, and it spread. The forest unfolded at her back, to her sides, and directly before her; the path lost shadow and darkness in their growing light. Light, however, did not diminish the demon; it hallowed him. Jewel felt her mouth go dry at the sight of Lord Ishavriel in the gleaming of Winter light. He was beautiful, yes, and cold—but there was something about his expression in the shadows cast by light that implied a sorrow so deep and ancient she couldn’t even comprehend it.
She took a step forward and reached out with one hand—it was not the hand that anchored her to the tree.
“Do not be a fool,” a familiar voice said. Winter voice. Celleriant had come. He looked up at the height of the tree she now held, and his eyes were a silver that reflected gold somehow. “So,” he said softly, when he at last looked back down at the grimy, mortal woman to whom his service had been given.
He did something she could never have predicted: He fell to one knee and he bowed his exposed and perfect face toward that knee. She was speechless, which was admittedly rare. But he wasn’t done, not yet. He called the sword she’d hoped never to see again. It came to his hand in almost exactly the same fashion as Lord Ishavriel’s had done. But it was blue to Ishavriel’s red.
He didn’t threaten her. He didn’t stand. Instead, he placed the sword at her feet, holding only the hilt to do so. “While you live, ATerafin, I will serve you—and only you.” He gestured and his shield came to his arm. “I will be your host; I will be your shield. I, and the things at my command.”
“But—but—” She felt the tines of the Winter King lodge gently between her shoulders.
Celleriant met her flustered gaze; his own was implacable, immovable. Immortal. He waited.
What the Hells am I supposed to say? It’s not like he asked a question.
“The Winter Queen,” she finally managed.
“While you live, ATerafin,” was Celleriant’s reply. It was cold; he would never be warm; no more would he be open and giving. But there was, in the words, an intensity that defied the distance that cold implied.
Tell him to rise, ATerafin.
Jewel was silent. She understood what he offered. She was afraid of it. Of what it might mean, in the future.
Tell him to rise, and allow him to do what he has sworn to do. Lord Ishavriel will not leave this forest merely because you have claimed it; he will cause no damage to your House and your kin because of your intervention—but you are mortal, and he is not. He is Kialli; his pride will not allow such a retreat.
And Celleriant?
Lord Celleriant is a Prince of the Winter Court; the Winter Queen and the Lord of the Hells have been bitter enemies for almost the whole of their long existence together. What Lord Ishavriel cannot do for pride’s sake, he can for pragmatism—but not if it is you alone he faces.
He can’t hurt me here.
He can, Jewel. Understand that. Your pain is far, far too simple. Can he injure you? No; not here. Not now. But it is not you that he will injure. Not you that he will kill.
But—but what would it mean, to be served by a…a Prince of the Winter Court?
Only what you make of it, in the end.
If Ishavriel’s pride won’t allow him to back down—from me—why would Celleriant serve? Where is his pride?
The Arianni and the Allasiani were never the same, although they could be kin. A wuffling breath touched the back of her neck; the Winter King was frustrated. You will need power, ATerafin. In the coming months and years, you will require it.
She’d known that. But the definition of power had been money, influence, rank. Not this. Not this forest of radiant metal; not the Winter King; not the Arianni.
Yet her enemy—one of many—was more of this world than the other.
She nodded to Celleriant; he did not rise.
Give me your hand, ATerafin. Do not let go of the tree.
I didn’t need to be told that.
His breath again, soft, distinct, and very warm. She held out her free hand and knew, the instant before it happened, what he would do: He cut it. It bled. Arann stiffened, and she was suddenly glad that it was Arann, and not Angel, by her side. She grimaced and then lowered that bleeding palm toward Celleriant. His eyes flashed silver light, and gold, and ice, and for a moment it seemed to her—from his eyes alone—that he had swallowed the spirit of this forest, had made it his own.
He lifted his sword from its bed of broken cobblestones, and he cut his own palm; he bled. It looked red in the darkness, and it clearly wasn’t frozen. When he placed the bleeding cut above her own she hesitated again; she had to force herself to keep the hand steady.
And he knew it, of course. His smile was thin and cold as any smile that ever touched his lips. But it was fierce, also, and bright. His hand in hers was warm. Warm, living; it might have been a mortal hand, by feel alone.
“You know that this is going to be hard, for you,” she told him, the words running ahead of her thoughts; ahead of anything but instinct.
“Will it?”
He released her hand. She wasn’t surprised to see that no trace of a wound remained on either of their palms; just the blood smeared by their momentary joining. Rising, he adjusted his shield. In the growing forest, Lord Ishavriel stood, watching in a silence that had lost all frustration. It contained, instead, anticipation.
“Yes,” was her soft reply. “Because I’ll see the Winter Queen again, and you’ll be with me. She’ll know.”
She couldn’t see his expression as he walked toward the waiting demon. But his words, as they drifted back, were clear. “She already knows, ATerafin. She knew the moment you accepted my oath.”
The trees sang.
It was a slow trickle of sound, each note attenuated; from a single tree the note might have been the faint protest of breeze through branches. But it was not a single tree that Celleriant heard as he approached Lord Ishavriel; it was a forest. It was not a Winter forest, not a Summer forest—but something profound had touched the trees along this path, and their voices were waking.
He wanted to sing to them. As if he were a youth, and the Winter Wars, the gods and their deaths or their abandonment, had never happened. He wanted to stand beneath their bowers and catch the slow fall of their leaves on his upturned face; he wanted to hear their voices and their long, slow words. He did neither. He carried a sword in the heart of this waking place, and he knew that it did not belong here.
But he was sentinel now; he knew that there were other things that did not belong here, and only the sword might drive them away. Perhaps that was all, in the end, that he was to be allowed, for War was in his blood with its savage, strange joy.
Skirmish: The House War: Book Four Page 27