The Riven Shield

by Michelle West

  You are worried, Jewel.

  “I told you—”

  And because of your gift, you cannot afford to ignore what you feel.

  She hesitated for another moment. “You were like him, when you were . . .”

  When I was a man?

  Her nod was brief. Yes.

  I was like him, yes. But unlike; even at the height of my power, when I could see no threat to my dominion, I acknowledged the power of the Warlord.

  She hated that word. “It’s easier to forget that. About you.”

  You have no desire to remember it. And I have little reason to remind you. But again, he stroked her forehead with his lower tines.

  She withdrew then. But she also surrendered. “I would. I’d speak to him if I could think of anything to say.”

  Avandar had come too soon from the mountains, and he yearned for them, although he knew the passage into the Stone Deepings had destroyed much of the bindings that kept them safe from the old paths, the hidden ways.

  He might have returned, but he was held fast by a binding he had made in haste. It had been centuries, more, since he had last chosen to cast such a spell, and leave such a mark, and after it, too, had failed, the disappointment had scoured him of desire. He had not thought to be tempted by mortality again.

  And had he guessed that the time would come when he would be, he would never have guessed that it would be for someone as simple, as reckless, as Jewel ATerafin.

  She was no fool. Had she been, they would never have met. But had she been competent, had she been—as all of his wives had been, in a painful and distant past—truly powerful, he might never have been summoned from the halls of the Domicis to serve her.

  The service rankled.

  The past, invoked by the dormant Tor Arkosa, had opened its doors and windows, beckoning. Not a single one of the Voyani could claim the kinship with that unearthed City that he could, should he so choose; not a single one of these diminished, neglected descendants could conceive of what that City had been—and could still be—when it was ruled by a man who understood how to take and wield power.

  They were broken, shadows, crippled mortals whose only link to the past lay in a name and a measured span of years. They could not understand what had passed before them, and even if they did, he was certain that they would not seek to attain it again.

  And why should they?

  In their mediocrity and their fear they had almost outlasted the ancient powers that had guided their ancestors; one or two of the ancient weapons, crafted in the forges of the Deepings, were theirs to command—but they understood these weapons so poorly.

  It was their war.

  It was theirs, but he had walked the perimeter of the Tor Arkosa, and he had heard, in its ascension, the ancient voice of the slumbering earth. He had seen the ghosts of his own dead, and he was forced to acknowledge the fact that he had not—could never—join them.

  Lord Celleriant of the Green Deepings cast a slender shadow in the slow progress of dusk. The mount of the Winter Queen cast a man’s shadow, if one knew how to look; for Avandar, such knowledge required no effort. The knowledge that Lord Ishavriel walked across these sands had hardly moved him.

  But the existence of Telakar in the wastelands spoke to him in a way that he could not deny. He desired power, now.

  And he desired peace.

  He stood between these two, and thought of the mountain stronghold in which he had often sought refuge.

  ATerafin.

  He lifted his arm. Lifted it, letting the folds of his simple shirt drift elbow-ward at the behest of gravity. She was his; he had placed his mark upon her in an attempt to save her life. She had reacted as she so often did: In haste, in anger, and in ignorance.

  But this binding, unlike the previous one, was unique. He might have explained it, had his waking in the mountain vastness been untroubled and unencumbered. He might have explained it later, but her vision, hobbled by lack of training, by lack of exposure to the path of the Firstborn, was cutting nonetheless, and he had retreated from the unexpected vulnerability left him by her sight.

  If he had wondered, in the distant past, about the power of the seer-born, he wondered no longer; his only hope of maintaining his own control lay in her profound inexperience.

  Lifting his arm, he gazed at the skin between wrist and elbow. Nestled there, gleaming like the edge of a narrow blade, was the sigil of the Warlord.

  In the long years of his adulthood—childhood was a territory that had long deserted him, and not even the memories of its passage remained—he had only chosen to bear such a mark once; it had almost killed him.

  Death should be a gift; it was denied him. He had searched many years for it, and each time, it had eluded him. But he felt a different desire now, and it was hard to turn away from it.

  He let his arm drop to his side. Night was falling.

  He needed no protection from the elements, and he was capable of sustaining himself in the absence of food and water, although it was costly.

  But he had learned, with time, that sleep was a necessity. For three days now, he had avoided it.

  But it was coming. This evening, he would sleep.

  And in dreams, he had little defense against her.

  Jewel stood upon the flat of a grassy hilltop. Her boots were wet with dew, her feet cool. She wore her own clothing—the thin Northern cottons that she favored when the humidity in Averalaan had become at least as uncomfortable as sweat. Her arms were bare. Her head was covered, although her hair—curling ferociously in the damp air—constantly pushed the covering askew.

  Finch gently prodded her about hairpins and braids; Jewel hated both because she couldn’t keep track of where she’d put the former, and the latter, besides being a bit of a fuss, made her feel like a twelve year old.

  She turned to say as much, but Finch wasn’t there. Nor was Teller.

  Instead, she saw Avandar, robed as domicis, his expression vaguely disapproving, his arms by his sides. He looked so normal, she had a sudden urge to hug him, to cling to him, as if by clinging she could force him to retain this shape.

  “Knowledge,” he said, the word itself a condescension, “is power. How many times must I repeat this?”

  “As many times,” she replied, “as you want, if it makes you happy.”

  “You cannot be a power and dwell in ignorance.”

  “I don’t want to be a power.”

  “It is far too late for that, Jewel. Far too late. You have made your vows.” He lifted an arm, pointing, and she followed the gesture, her gaze dragged by the imperative of dreaming.

  The mists that were often so heavy in the city began to clear, and she realized that the hilltop was not to be a refuge. She was not in Averalaan.

  “Where are we?”

  “At the heart of your gift,” he told her, almost gently.

  She knew it was true.

  “Avandar.”

  He looked down. “Yes?”

  “Why are you here?”

  “I will always be here. But that is not your question.”

  Rolling her eyes, she spoke again. “Why are you here, in my dream?”

  “I . . . do not know. But, yes. I am . . . myself.”

  “Where are we?”

  The lift of his brow was a gift, although she knew she had annoyed him. “Did I not give you the maps of this terrain?”

  “. . . No.”

  “Ah.” He lifted a brow. She was a terrible liar, which was why she so seldom tried to lie. “Let the mist roll away, and you will have your answer.”

  She watched; the sun was creeping up along the eastern edge of an obscure horizon. “Avandar. I—the City—”

  He lifted a hand. “I have never asked you about your past.”
<
br />   “I’ve never hidden it.”

  “No?” His hand brushed her shoulder; she felt his palm against the curve of her exposed skin. As if it were fire, she leaped back, lifting both hands, palm out. Denial.

  She knew—knew—that her control was precarious here; that she could take a step backward into a landscape that had ceased to exist years ago. There were places she never wanted to see again; she held her ground.

  “Does your past never anger you?”

  She said nothing.

  “Does the lack of justice in your early life never give you pause? Have you never wondered if justice was a concept that only those in power could enforce—or reject?”

  “Whatever happened in the past is there—in the past. I am not ashamed of my life. I am not ashamed of what I did in order to survive it.”

  “Good. Let it go, Jewel.”

  “I’m not the one bringing it up.”

  He smiled. She hated it.

  “You could answer your own questions, if you so chose.”

  “How?”

  “You are seer-born. And the Oracle acknowledged your gift; you are not without power. The seers were prized at the height of man’s rule. Why do you think they were valued?”

  She shrugged. “Because with a lot of work, you could get answers about the future.”

  “Indeed. With some work. But the future is a murky place, full of possibilities, probabilities, foolish hopes. What you see does not always come to pass. Try again.”

  “Avandar.”

  He raised a brow.

  “I’m not a sixteen-year-old girl any more. I’m responsible for one third of the trade routes owned by House Terafin. I—”

  “You are the heir to the seat, yes. But Valedan kai di’Leonne is heir to an entire kingdom.”

  “No one treats him like a child.”

  “It is my supposition, from our limited exposure, that he frequently fails to act like one. But he is a good comparison, because in the end, if he is to succeed to the throne, he will wage a war in the Dominion the like of which has not been seen in generations.

  “He understands this. Accepts it.”

  The mists were giving way to flat, clear plains. Jewel had expected to see trees, for some reason; had expected to see forest, roads, rivers. The hill was high.

  But what the mist suggested, its absence denied.

  “I will tell you. If the seer-born chose to do so, they could see the past of a man almost as clearly as they could see the shadows he cast. The future is a place of possibility; the past is fixed. The road between the two is often connected, and once the path is found, it can be followed.

  “The Oracle invited you to walk upon older roads than could be found in even the Stone Deepings. Walk them, Jewel, and in the end, I will be able to hide nothing.”

  She felt cold. Looked down at the hands that had slowly fallen to her sides, and saw, cupped in them, a round, glowing orb. Inside its wall of curved glass, mist was in motion, a constant dance.

  She blinked; her hands were empty.

  But the mists of the morning had given way in a sudden gust of wind, pulled like curtains to either side.

  Beneath her, extending for as far as she could see—and she was no fool, she looked—lay a sea of tents, gray upon gray except where a banner stood upon a fixed pole. She saw horses, haltered, impatient; saw men, some with spears, some with swords.

  “Where—where are we?”

  “We are, if I guess correctly, at the border of the Terrean of Raverra. And this, this is some part of the army the young kai Leonne faces.” He held out a hand. She stared at it, but he did not withdraw it.

  She shook her head.

  “Jewel. You are seer-born. It is time that you understand what that means. Come.” He caught her hand in his, and she was surprised at the difference in the size of their palms. For just a moment, she relaxed, hand clinging to his as if he were someone she could trust.

  He began to walk toward the body of the army.

  “No,” she whispered. She would have said more, but she heard her own voice, and she knew that she was a child, younger even than the child he accused her of being. He led her toward the tents. What had seemed so large grew larger still; the army was huge.

  But they passed through it as if it were the illusion, the mist, the vision, and they were real. He paused a moment every few steps, contemplating the forces gathered.

  “Ah,” he said. “Come.”

  She did not withdraw her hand.

  The ground beneath their feet was trampled; what had grown there before the men had chosen to lay down their camp was flat now; soil, moist and soft, showed through layers of wild flora. She saw the curved imprints of heavier feet; horses had passed here, in number.

  “That,” he said, pointing, “Is the banner of Eduardo kai di’Garrardi, the Tyr’agnate of Oerta. He is present. I do not see the banner of Lorenza; the men gathered here represent the forces of Raverra and Oerta.”

  He began to walk again, but this time she pulled against his hand “Not there,” she whispered.

  “No?”

  She shook her head. He frowned, but he hesitated.

  “Can’t you see it?”

  Gathering in the heart of this tent city was a darkness that spoke of storm. But it was a wild storm, dense and heavy; she could not look through it, could not see around its edges.

  “We can’t go there,” she said abruptly.

  What had been a comfort was now her only leverage; she pulled at his hand, gaining weight and substance; true dream or no, dreams had a way of shifting.

  To her surprise, he smiled.

  Yes, he told her, his lips motionless. Yes. They have a way of shifting. Use it, and you begin to understand what you can do. You have been born to a blind world; see, Jewel. That is your gift.

  She turned her gaze upon him, losing sight of shadow and army. He was blurred now, indistinct, but he grew taller as she watched.

  She stood, only her chin lifting as she followed the widening and shifting of Avandar’s eyes. They were dark, the eyes she had known for over a decade, but the heart of them was a terrible, burning gold.

  She had seen the god-born before, at a distance; the Mother’s daughter; the sons of Cormaris and Reymaris; Kiriel, whose golden light was limned in shadow. This was different. Terrible.

  Like, very like, the sands of the Sea of Sorrows.

  She wanted to weep.

  “No,” she told him, “that is only part of my gift. Of whatever it is that you call it. The rest is me. I am Jewel. I’m Jay. I’m—”

  “You are,” another voice said, “far from your home.”

  She lost sight of Avandar as she spun.

  Where the armies had stood upon the trampled field, there now stood a single man.

  He knelt upon the blackened ground left in the wake of the fires. Later, she would wonder what had caused those fires; now, she accepted what the dream offered her. The buildings around him were broken ruins, the stone as black as the ground except where walls had cracked, revealing what lay beneath the surface.

  They were bleeding, she thought.

  She reached out to touch them.

  “I wouldn’t, if I were you,” the man on the ground said. “There is always a danger when you heal the injured.”

  He looked up as her fingers brushed the sharp edges offered by sheered rock.

  And bled.

  She felt the pain; it was wrong. Everything about it was wrong,

  Jewel! Avandar’s voice. She could see him nowhere, but she turned; his voice was more felt than heard.

  The man upon the ground straightened the curve of his bent back, his rounded shoulders. As he did, she saw that his arms were shaking; they were pressed tightly, no
t to his chest—for he was a slender man—but rather around someone’s back. A spill of dark hair mingled with his injured arm; blood from a gash across his forehead still wept, adorning the girl he held.

  For just a moment, Jewel thought the child was dead, but she stirred, lifting her head along the line of his exposed chest. She moved slowly, carefully, minimally.

  “This is irony,” the man said, and Jewel suddenly knew where she had heard his voice. She froze. Wondered why it had taken so long for recognition to come.

  “Viandaran,” he said, lips thinning.

  Jewel turned, then. To her back, like standing shadow, the man who was domicis—and could never be domicis—now stood. He held her hand. She could not remember when he took it, but she clung.

  “I . . . do not . . . recognize you,” Avandar said quietly.

  “Perhaps not. Recognition was never a concern of mine. Yours, perhaps; when the gods walked the world, there was not a creature upon it who had not heard of the Warlord.”

  “It is not a title I use.”

  “It is not a title, Viandaran. It is a simple statement.”

  Avandar’s hand was torn from hers. She had time to cry out, but not time enough to tighten her grip against its loss.

  She did not need to look to know that he was gone. Which was good; her gaze was no longer fluid; it had come to rest upon the face of Lord Isladar of the Shining Court.

  “This is no dream,” she whispered.

  “It is a dream. But it is your dream, Jewel ATerafin. What you see, I cannot see; what you see, I will not interpret.”

  She took a step, but wasn’t certain whether it was forward or back until she saw that he was closer.

  Kiriel, she thought. “I see the child you hold.”

  His eyes widened slightly, although his expression did not otherwise change. “It is a pity that I tried—so unsuccessfully—to kill you.”

  “It wasn’t because of the Sight.”

  He lifted the arch of a blackened brow; blood shifted its fall. “No. But I will take care in the future, when we next meet. I should have known that Viandaran would never suffer allies of middling power.”

  “Why are you here?”