"Jewel."
She ignored Avandar.
The pretty man was only marginally less pretty when haughty; he was haughty now. "You really don't understand what's happened, do you?"
"Yes, I do. Dark god that we all don't name because we're afraid He'll hear us has managed to get a teeny-tiny foothold into our world. We don't want Him here, and we're going to send Him back to the Hells. Simple."
"Something is being simple," he said coldly.
She slapped him.
Just like that, hand snaking out and back in a movement that surprised them all. His sword was out of its scabbard so fast Jewel wouldn't have bet money that he'd ever sheathed it.
Avandar was faster still; lightning met sword as if it were corporeal. But the sword stopped.
The man who had been Lord Celleriant closed his eyes. Jewel could see the mark her hand had left on his perfect skin. She wondered, then, what sun would do. What age would do—if he would age at all when they left this place. "Do you think," he said, moderating his tone with such obvious difficulty Jewel wasn't sure whether she should be grateful for the attempt when the failure was so great. "That you can stand against a god?"
"If I remember my history," she began.
"You don't," Avandar said. "You remember your legends. History and legend diverge in details both great and small."
"If I remember my legend," she said, throwing Avandar the look he deserved for the interruption he'd given, "Moorelas—"
"Called Morel of Aston," Avandar said, speaking directly to Lord Celleriant now, "in your time."
"I know well of whom she speaks, Warlord."
"Good. I can do without the interruptions. Avandar, take a hint.
"Moorelas rode against Allasakar."
"And?"
"Well," she said, frowning, "he won, obviously, because there are no dark gods—no gods at all—wandering around making our lives miserable. Not that we're not good at doing that ourselves."
"Is that the tale that is told now?" he said, not to her, but to Avandar.
"Lays are sung about the Shining Lord and the Shining City," was Avandar's quiet reply. "But this is known: That Moorelas rode into the shadow, and in time, the shadow lifted."
Celleriant frowned.
"It is also known," Avandar continued softly, his words weapon now, and cold. "That he was to have ridden with the four princes of the Firstborn. Four, sworn to fealty.
"But he dared the shadow that they would not dare."
"Not so." Celleriant was stung. "There are only three sleepers."
Avandar frowned. "Death takes us all."
"Or almost all. Maybe this will be your battle, Warlord," the tall immortal said. His lips turned up in a smile that Jewel had seen before. Once before. On the lips of a demon. "Or perhaps not; it is said that your curse and your skill are one and the same. Perhaps you must hide with the rest of the cattle in order to achieve your—"
Blue light flared in Avandar's hands, but it wasn't his hands that concerned Jewel; it was the light that seemed to pour, like gouts of multicolored flame, from his eyes.
"Avandar! No!"
Celleriant's sword caught the lightning, but his armor absorbed the spell, and of the two, Jewel thought the spell the more dangerous. Celleriant grunted with pain; the magic drove him back into the rock. But it didn't kill him, and that surprised her. His armor, however, was shredded in a way that she wouldn't have thought possible for something metallic.
"Avandar!"
Celleriant brought his sword 'round in an arc. It was a great sword; it had reach and weight, and he had the height and the strength to wield it as if it were a long sword.
There was a clang of steel against steel. Somehow—she had no idea how, and a strong sense that she didn't want to know— Avandar was armed.
She had never seen him fight before. She had seen him kill and had reason to be grateful for those deaths. She had seen him use his magic, briefly, in the Common against the demons. She had seen him pull the leash that he held, invisible but absolute, when she had been surrounded by statues that didn't seem to have her best interests at whatever was left of their hearts.
There had been no question of his power.
But this: this was power shorn of facade; it was contest shorn of any experience but the immediacy of the battle itself. And she had seen it before. Once, long ago, hiding behind the banisters of the largest stairway she had—up to that point in her life—ever seen, her den at her back, breaths held, waiting on her command. Waiting.
The clang of steel.
Someone was going to die. If she didn't do something, someone was going to die.
And she knew who it would be.
It shouldn't have mattered to her, but, curse everything, it did. She froze a moment on the road, the wilderness and her own helplessness bearing down on her. And then she turned.
Turned to where a set of round, unblinking eyes observed everything: The fight, the swirl of steel, the aurora of magic that haloed both men as if they were angels. Or demons. She had hoped that what lay behind that soft fur, beneath that crown of tines, was animal. So much for hope.
But the creature dipped its massive head, and she understood at that moment exactly what to do. Jewel, who hated riding and avoided horses whenever possible because of the embarrassment the inevitable comparison between her skill and the skill of those born to leisure always caused, grabbed the neck of the great stag, catching the antler nearest her for support as he shrugged her onto his back. She had seen—just once—Duster and Carver try to kill each other. It was ugly. It was one of the ugliest memories she had, and she didn't take it out often for just that reason. But the ugly things, like things of great beauty, had power; they stayed with you no matter how much you tried to dodge 'em. She'd stopped them then.
She sat.
Took a deep breath.
The stag said, hold on. She nearly fell off.
And then it lurched forward, and somehow, lurching or no, she realized that it would not let her fall. Its tines, like the swords' light, glowed.
She remembered Duster, Duster her killer, Duster the member of the den that she was always most attracted to because she was a killer, circling Carver, dagger extended, taunting him. Remembered Carver, wary, but cheeks flushed, his anger overwhelming his sense. You couldn't make Duster stupid with anger. When she was ready to kill, you couldn't do it. The quiet was ugly with her determination and her pleasure.
And how had she broken them up?
Arann's help.
The stag's muscles tensed beneath her. Ready to leap, she thought. Ready for flight.
Except that flight implied away, and she wasn't going away. Arann's help, yes. But it had been Jewel, in the end. Jewel in the center of all things, where tempers had frayed and blood was being spilled in scratches that threatened to become something irreparable.
She heard the strike of swords against tine; heard the creature she was on growl—and would wonder, later, how a stag could growl—and then she was off the beast's back, hands tangled briefly for both leverage and swing on the lowest of the beast's antlers before she found her feet there, in center ground, in the middle of a fight that should never have happened.
Wouldn't have happened if she hadn't slipped, if she hadn't been intimidated, if she hadn't been tired and afraid.
The swords rose and fell, but they fell slowly as both men realized what they would strike—if they struck.
She wanted to smack them both. That's what she'd done to Duster and Carver after the sheer terror and anger and shaking had finally left her. And not a Northern slap, nothing weak and simple about it; a good, Southern slap. Like her Oma would have given 'em, had she been alive then.
But these two—these two were beyond that. Mostly. For now.
"Avandar." He stared past her and past his name to the face of the equally intent Lord of the Arianni. "Avandar. I'm talking to you."
"I… am listening."
"Do better. Pay attention.
"
The moment stretched out. She curled her hands into fists, forgetting his dignity for a minute. Forgetting her own, not that it mattered as much. But perhaps, sensing what was about to follow, Avandar remembered his dignity. He turned to her.
"ATerafin." Obviously angry.
But in the anger department, he had nothing on her. "Okay," she said, hissing on the sibilants, "he's an idiot. He has no idea what it means to be one of mine, he's probably lost the only thing he really cared about having—not that it makes any sense, but that's beside the point—he's got an excuse for being an idiot. What's yours?"
"I see, Viandaran," the Arianni Lord began, in a tone of voice very like Duster's would have been.
He didn't finish. Jewel nodded at the stag and the stag very swiftly—very swiftly—butted him. His sword came up, but he staggered back; the point was made. Jewel glanced sideways at the stag; had the sword not come up, the argument would have ended, and not in a way that she liked.
But could she judge? No. She never wanted to know what the stag had gone through. Never.
And he had a voice to tell her with. It was very, very dark, for a moment, the light seemed to bleed shadows.
This was not the den she would have put together on her own. But with her own so damn far from her, it was the only one she had.
"Lord Celleriant, you're going to have to come up with a different name."
"Oh?"
"Yours is too—too—well, to be honest, it's the type of name a child would choose because it sounded either magical or important."
His brows rose; his cheeks darkened. "It's not like Avandar's going by his real name either," she reminded.
"He," Avandar said with quiet dignity, "is going by the name as it would have meaning in your current tongue."
"Not my tongue."
"One of them."
"Whatever. What should we call you? What do you want to call yourself?"
"Celleriant," he replied.
"Why don't we just shorten it to something I can remember."
A white brow rose.
She looked him straight in the face. "Let's get one thing straight. I don't give a damn if you think I'm stupid. I don't give a damn if you think I'm anything at all except the woman whose orders you follow. Clear?"
His brows rose a fraction and he looked over the top of her head—which was easy—at Avandar. "This," he said, his voice no longer dripping contempt because a very real curiosity had edged its way between the words, "is what you have chosen to serve?"
"She surprises me constantly," Avandar replied. "She is not what I thought to serve. I… had other plans for her. I thought to guide her to a position of power."
"I don't like your definition of power," Jewel snapped; it was an old argument. "It doesn't mean I don't want power."
But Avandar wasn't speaking to her. He put up his sword. So did the Arianni Lord. "Good. If the two of you children have stopped slinging rocks and can sit at the table like grownups, we've got things to discuss."
Celleriant's brows disappeared into the line of his hair—hair that was momentarily less than perfect because he'd bled on it somewhat. Or Avandar had. They both looked as if they'd been fighting for their lives. And they both looked, damn them, as if they somehow enjoyed the unguarded ferocity.
"Come on," she said, her voice as dark as the night, "the ledge. Now. Any more shit, and I'll—"
"You'll what?" Avandar said pointedly.
"I'll discharge you both from my service and leave you here. Him," she added, nodding in the direction of the stag, "I'll take."
Avandar said nothing. He was used to her. Lord Celleriant was used to something else from humans, and from the looks of his face, it was a lot closer to groveling and pleading than Jewel was capable of. He started to speak. She cut him off.
"You want an easy death, or you wouldn't have started that fight. We both know damn well that you're no match for Avandar." It was meant to insult; it insulted. Jewel was not above temper herself. "Well, guess what? I gave you an order, follow it. You don't get an easy death when you're with me."
His bow was heavy with irony. And armor.
"And while we're on the topic, this is the first rule: No fighting among den members. You're one of mine. You don't fight with anyone else who's mine. Clear? Good."
"Two: You're used to the kill. Fine. I won't judge you for your past. Okay," she added, glancing to and from the stag, "I'll try real hard not to. Past is past; you're here. So: I don't care what you want to kill, I say stop, you stop. Is that clear?"
"Do you wish me to exercise my own judgment?"
"What did I just say?" She sat down in front of the rocky outcropping. "Okay. Speaking of dens: You're part of my den now."
"Den?"
"Yeah. Group of people who do what I say. Sort of like your host, but less—just less whatever it was she was."
He said nothing, but for just a moment, the expression on his face made her pity him in spite of her best intentions. "You won't meet the rest of 'em—if they're lucky—for a while. They call me what you can call me. What everyone but Avandar calls me."
"And that is?"
"Jay."
He was silent.
"Wait, don't tell me. You're another one of those people that think a name is defined by how many syllables it has."
He didn't dignify her comment with an answer, but looked to Avandar. Then he said, "I will call you what you suffer your other powerful servants to call you; nothing less."
"AU right. Call me Jewel."
"Jewel is… a more interesting choice of name."
"It wasn't my choice."
"Indeed." The Arianni took his place in front of her. But he sheathed his sword; she wondered how he managed to get it into the scabbard across his back without nicking the side of his neck—but she always wondered that with the big swords. They never seemed practical. She also wondered how he'd drawn the blade in the first place.
Avandar's sword was nowhere to be seen, and she didn't ask. She cleared her throat. "You," she said, frowning slightly, "will have to be Teller."
Avandar took his place at her side and slightly behind; the stag took his place behind them all—which was just as well because there wasn't any room for him at the small ledge.
"And what of me?
She rolled her eyes. "You clean the blood off your face and your arm, and then you—"
"No, Lady—Jewel. What do you wish to call me?"
She was silent for a long time, looking at him. Thinking that the names that had come to her for her den had come because half of her den didn't know their real names, or couldn't wait to leave them behind. In the end, she'd named them—half in fun— and the names stuck. As if they had power. Teller. Finch. Carver. Lefty—dead, with Fisher and Lander, dead with Duster. Arann had survived with his own name intact because only Arann was so much himself she couldn't change him.
"Killer," she said quietly.
If something as graceful and perfect as Lord Celleriant could roll eyes, he would have. His expression was damn close. "Killer."
"It sounds close enough to the first half of your actual name, and it's descriptive. I could go for stubborn, arrogant fool, but that would probably bother you, and it's too many syllables."
"Jewel." Avandar's voice sounded as normal as it had since they'd left Terafin.
"And another thing," Jewel said to him. "You never mentioned my name while she was around."
"No. It's not… safe. Not during the Hunt."
"But you'll mention it to him?"
"She gave him to you. He is yours. He is incapable of betraying you. And, if the truth were known, I believe him incapable of understanding you well enough to use your name in the fashion of his kin."
"If they were incapable of betrayal, Moorelas might not have fallen. Or so legend says."
"Jewel," Avandar said, almost sharply, "You speak of things you do not understand. Celleriant is Lord; they were Princes; she could not bind them in so sim
ple a fashion. She could command, yes, but she could not compel. Celleriant will not betray you, although he may well do everything within the bounds of his ability to resist.
"Oh. Good." She turned back to the Arianni Lord. "Well, Killer, this is what we do. I have a dream. I tell you what it is. You listen. That's it. Teller takes notes, and I'd let you do it—but I suspect you can't write. Weston," she added quickly as the clouds moved in on his expression. "You can't write Weston."
"Very well," he replied, tone mirroring expression.
Gods, could things get any more difficult?
"Dream."
Avandar set a "lamp" on the table; a thing of fire that had the rough shape of the lamp Finch or Teller so often carried. She stared at it, wondering if the fight had driven the dream back into whereever it is that dreams—thankfully—went when she woke. But Avandar spoke quietly.
"Valedan," he said.
And she saw, in his fire, the heart of the dream: the young man's face, his high cheekbones exposed. He wore a helm, its visor above his face; lines of sweat trickled out from beneath his dark hair. That hair was drawn back; it vanished into the edges of light. His eyes were narrowed; he was intent upon something, but it was something that she could not clearly see.
There was a scratch across his forehead; it had healed, but the russet stain of blood was caught in his eyebrows, just visible against his skin. Sloppy cleaning—or quick. Hard to say.
"Jewel?"
"Valedan is staring at something. I hear a voice. He's annoyed, but it passes. I see him. He turns." She swallowed. "Gods, Avandar, they're in a valley, I think it's a valley—not sudden and sharp, but I can see where the trees and the hills rise on either side—"
"Averdan valleys?"
"How the Hells should I know—Shut up, I'm losing it." She didn't want to hold on to it. But it was strong. "There are dead all over the place. I see a standard; its pole—it's been snapped in half, but someone managed to keep it up. It's flapping in the wind, but— but I can see it." She stopped speaking. "The standard-bearer's dead."
Her discussion with the Terafin spirit came back to her, and she froze because all around her she could see the dead. She could smell them, and she had never been on a battlefield that she knew of; she could hear their bitter cries.
Michelle West - The Sun Sword 03 - The Shining Court Page 63