War

by Michelle West

  “Do you understand that, when they did walk, there was no mortal realm?”

  Jester nodded.

  “Jewel does. She, like you, is mortal. And she, unlike you—unlike me—is talent-born. That has always been the truth by which she has lived. But if you have listened to the reports of the House Mage—or, rather, if you have bothered to read them when provided the opportunity—you would understand that it is not all of the truth. It is a simple window, a narrow view of only a portion of the greater whole.

  “The mage-born find their magics more powerful than they have ever been. So, too, the healer-born. The world that we have known as the only world is shifting and changing; things have been broken that have existed for the entirety of our lives.

  “Not even in the days of the Blood Barons did such a shift occur. You have seen demons and you have heard the whispered name of the Lord of the Hells. You have even understood, in some fashion, that the Lord of the Hells is a god, and that he is here. Here, in the same world, the same reality, as Jewel. Do you honestly think that we are the equal of a god? The gods once shaped whole continents on a whim and destroyed them in the same fashion; they did not privilege or prize life or their creations, and they certainly did not grant them autonomy.

  “And yet, we have some rudimentary autonomy. And man, as a species, survived. Does it not strike you as all but impossible?”

  Jester understood a rhetorical question when he heard one.

  “Have you noticed that the immortals grant Jewel respect that they do not offer to anyone else? They call her Sen.”

  Silence.

  “You were present when we went to find Jewel in what, to her, was a dream. You went to the twenty-fifth holding.”

  “Enough, Haval.”

  “No, it is not. Because if no one else is willing to see the truth of this, we will be caught in the dreams of Jewel Markess, made, remade, or vanished without any conscious thought on her part. She would not willingly do so. But what we dream is not what we live, and the choices we make in dreams are often counter to everything we believe we stand for.” He frowned. “Surely this cannot come as a surprise to you, if you have invested any thought in it at all.”

  Lazy, remember? Jester started to speak the words, but they would not leave his mouth. Had he thought? No, but it was worse than that. He had avoided all such thought. The den trusted Jay. Had always trusted her. She had given them no reason, ever, to do otherwise. But Teller—Teller had been thinking. And Finch, in all probability.

  “I have searched,” Haval continued. “I have had others search. The people who lived in that apartment at the time that Jewel returned there in her dreaming no longer exist. They have never existed. There are gaps that imply that existence, but even those are closing.”

  Jester didn’t give a damn about anyone who wasn’t den. Jester didn’t think twice about people who had mysteriously vanished from the twenty-fifth holding. What Jester thought—the only thing he’d thought—was that if the dream were stronger, they could have pulled Lefty, Fisher, Lander, and—yes—even Duster, out of that apartment and into the world, where they would be alive again.

  And then he had stopped thinking, because it was painful, and it led to places that were unprofitable.

  “You do not care.”

  “No.”

  “You would let the city burn as long as your den survived.”

  Jester shrugged.

  “Can you say the same of Jewel? No, that is unfair. You might lie, and you are not particularly accomplished at it. Far better, however, than your Lord. She is not what you are. Were she, none of you would be at her side. Because she is who she is, your den has become what it is. In my opinion, Arann would be almost unchanged; perhaps Teller. But the rest of you have always been more flexible. It is why Finch can work with, and even admire, a man she does not trust.

  “Jewel felt no ill-will for the people who vanished. She simply did not think about them at all. How much does one think about the setting of one’s dreams—or nightmares? But, in waking, she will be burdened with guilt and self-loathing, and that will quite probably destroy us.

  “I am not unlike you. I care for few, but that care is absolute and unshifting. Jewel is, in the opinion of the denizens of the wilderness, our only hope. And Averalaan will be her seat.”

  “That hasn’t answered my question.”

  “You are not stupid. You are no longer young, except in the relative sense. I have answered your question in as much detail as I now possess. Let me be clearer. She will become what she must become; she became Terafin against her personal preference. But our ability to survive it does not depend entirely on Jewel. It depends on you. It depends on the rest of the den. It depends, in some small fashion, on men like me.

  “And men like Jarven. There are things we cannot ask of her that must, regardless, be asked of someone.”

  “Anything done in her name, or done for her sake, she considers her responsibility. Anything. It’s why she’s never asked me to do what you might ask in future. If people are to become simple tools, they have no will of their own, no direction, no innate morality. And if they become her tools, she’s the one to blame for the work they do, not them.”

  “Ah. Then tell me, Jester, why did she keep Duster?”

  Chapter Two

  6th of Lattan, 428 A.A.

  Terafin Manse, Averalaan Aramarelas

  JEWEL WAS NOT AN architect; nor was she a carpenter or a stonemason. She did not design spaces in which people were expected to live and work. She could not, therefore, tell whether the inside of this castle was larger than the outside had implied and spared the question no thought.

  Avandar and the Chosen relaxed marginally once Anakton had ambled out the front doors—doors that remained open while Jewel was in residence. But their lack of familiarity with the environs of The Terafin’s new personal chambers put everyone on edge. The presence of Anakton had not helped. But if this castle had appeared overnight, it seemed to conform more precisely to what might otherwise be expected of an unknown building, the single exception being the library.

  The castle contained many rooms; those rooms were empty, but they contained the beds, chairs and desks that might be offered to guests of note; the floors were wooden, covered by long carpet runners; the windows were tall, wide, and let in normal sunlight.

  Jewel recognized the rooms in which she was intended to sleep, to dress, to prepare for the day that awaited her, in part because the doors were carved with the insignia of The Terafin. She could not fail to recognize it, although she no longer wore The Terafin’s ring. But these rooms were behind doors at the end of the longest of halls, and when she opened them, she faced a shorter hall, with doors that were likewise carved. At the end of this shorter hall were more modest doors, also engraved with The Terafin’s seal made large.

  Calliastra approached one of the doors—the first on the right. “I see. You were expecting me.”

  “Seer-born,” Jewel replied. There was no room for Finch. No room for Teller, or any of the rest of her den. There was one door that bore a crest that tugged at memory; she couldn’t immediately discern who owned it or where she’d seen it before.

  “Will you stay here?” she asked Calliastra.

  “Let us see what the seer-born believe would be home to one such as I.” The door opened before Calliastra could touch it. The room was darkened, shadowed; Jewel couldn’t see what it contained.

  Calliastra, however, didn’t have the same problem. She entered and glanced, once, over her shoulder. At Jewel. Jewel entered in her wake. The door did not magically shut behind her as she passed through the frame; the room did not magically brighten.

  She stumbled her way across a floor that was wider than the rooms the West Wing contained, until she hit wall. Or rather, curtain. She then fumbled her way to the curtain’s end, reaching for the rope that would all
ow her to gather that curtain, to bind it in place. As she did, light entered the room. Apprehensive, she looked at the room that she had somehow built for this child of two gods.

  Calliastra, however, did not appear to be doing the same. She stood frozen in what was, in the end, a large bedchamber; the room was well-furnished. Near the ceiling—which was high and rounded—something floated in the air. It reminded Jewel of the dangling things put over baby cots, something to catch an infant’s attention when they were old enough to see it.

  But this was not something that would fit over the cot of a small child; it was large. Stars glittered; an oversize moon hung beneath something that could have been a cow, although it appeared to possess wings. Black and white implied ebony, ivory, but there were flashes of light that might have been the reflections cut gems cast.

  This was not a room that Jewel would have consciously offered the child of the Lord of the Hells. It wasn’t a room she would have offered anyone who wasn’t a child, and she froze, just as Calliastra remained frozen, but for entirely different reasons. She could imagine just how enraged Duster would have been, and flinched.

  Duster would have stormed out in an unreachable fury, probably for at least a day.

  Calliastra was not Duster. She was white; all color seemed to have fled her face, her frozen expression; she looked a thing of alabaster or ice. But she lifted her face slowly, slowly, until she was looking at a child’s night sky made of black, of white.

  On the other side of the door, Finch was looking as wary as Jewel now felt. But Calliastra did not attempt to destroy the room; nor did she turn to shout—or scream—at the rest of the den.

  For another long beat she did not seem to be aware that anyone else existed, and then she lowered her face and met Jewel’s gaze, searching for something. When she found it—or perhaps when she didn’t find it—she relaxed. “Yes,” she said, voice softer than she had intended. “Yes, I’ll stay here.”

  * * *

  • • •

  She did not leave the room to accompany the rest of the den when Jewel at last dared her own chambers.

  Her rooms, however, were unremarkable. They were the rooms, on the interior, that The Terafin had always occupied. The ceiling was no longer a network of branches—or roots—but the lack allowed her to see a familiar trapdoor which, no doubt, led to a roof on which she could stand and think. Her clothing had been preserved in one long closet. She flinched as she opened the door. Her boots and shoes were there as well. In the dresser, the jewelry that The Terafin required was placed on several nested trays; her combs, pins, and brushes were also there.

  The bed hadn’t changed, but a smaller bed had been made and readied by the wall nearest the window.

  Finch and Teller exchanged a glance, their fingers dancing briefly before their hands once again fell to their sides. It was Teller who asked, “Is the old apartment still here?”

  Avandar glanced at the captain of the Chosen.

  Torvan nodded. “The war room appears to be below, on the first floor; it is now adjacent to the armory.” He hesitated, and then said, “Your previous rooms did not possess an armory.”

  “My previous rooms weren’t a castle. Is the armory empty?” Jewel’s question was quiet, but sharp.

  “No, Terafin.”

  Shadow sniffed. He padded across the room and leaped up on the bed, where he then lay down, folding his wings. He was, of course, in the exact center of the mattress.

  “It’s been a long day,” she heard herself say, as she glared at the cat. “And I’m about ready to fall over.”

  6th of Lattan, 428 A.A.

  Terafin Manse, Averalaan Aramarelas

  Jewel woke to darkness and the glowing golden eyes of a large, gray cat. His paws were resting against her chest with enough weight it was difficult to draw breath.

  At the far wall of the very large bedroom, Avandar leaned against a wall; he was on two feet, his arms folded, his head bent. There was no magelight in this room, but a lamp flickered on a table too far out of reach to be hazardous should Jewel move while asleep.

  Finch was sleeping.

  “Shadow.”

  He hissed. There was no amusement in it.

  “Your feet.”

  The removal of large paws withdrew warmth; she felt the air as cool, even chilly, in their absence. Avandar immediately detached himself from the wall and bent to retrieve clothing.

  “What time is it?”

  “I am uncertain.”

  Jewel rose in the scant light and began to dress, which involved more exposure to chill air. She turned to Shadow. “Is Calliastra in her rooms?”

  “Who cares?”

  “I do, obviously, or I wouldn’t have asked.”

  “Why does he get the easy question?”

  “Because he’s not as smart as you are.”

  This time Shadow’s hiss contained laughter. “She is with the other one.”

  Sleep had clearly not deserted her, but Jewel eventually asked, “Shianne?”

  “Yessss.”

  “And everyone else?”

  “Night is with them. They don’t like him.”

  “He’s not to kill any of them unless they try to kill him first.”

  “Yes, yes, yes.”

  “Avandar?”

  “Calliastra was disinclined to sleep and even less inclined to wait while you did.”

  “How did she get to the others?”

  “She did not prowl through the manor, if that is your concern.”

  It wasn’t. Jewel was not certain how to reach her forests from her castle.

  The clothing that Avandar had chosen for the very early morning was practical, but it was not clothing meant for the road; the weave of the cloth was too fine and too delicate, the skirts too fussy.

  She remembered very little of what had occurred in the hour before she finally succumbed to exhaustion. The only thing that remained firmly fixed in her mind was the fact that Teller had agreed to plead with Barston to arrange an appointment with Gilafas ADelios. He seemed highly doubtful that she would get the appointment she desired.

  Jewel, however, was not.

  She dressed as quickly as she could in the dim light; Finch was still asleep, and she didn’t want to wake her. Let her put down the burden of regency for a day or two, if even that long.

  Jewel had set out on a journey, on a quest of sorts, and the path she followed had led her home. But the path itself was not yet finished, the quest not yet completed. She might vanish—as Evayne, the only other living seer she had ever met—often did as a matter of course.

  When she was dressed, she ruined the ensemble by attaching a pack to her waist that was neither subtle nor suitable for anything but travel. Avandar did not insist on carrying it for her. He knew what it contained. And he knew, as Jewel knew, that the road she now walked could appear or disappear with little warning; that the landscape could separate her from her domicis without any desire or will on her part.

  Only when she was prepared did she ask him why he had allowed Shadow to wake her.

  “He did not ask permission,” Avandar replied.

  Jewel exhaled. “Shadow.”

  “It is Illaraphaniel. He has come. He is waiting.”

  * * *

  • • •

  The castle had not changed shape overnight. The halls remained the same, although there were now lamps along the walls. She did not see Ellerson, but did not expect to see him; he was not hers. He would be here when Finch woke, and then he would return to the West Wing. She did not resent him for failing to bring Carver back. How could she? Had she not, herself, made that same decision?

  She closed her eyes, inhaled, exhaled, and straightened her shoulders. “Where is he?”

  “If, by ‘he,’ you mean the House Mage, he is at the gates.”

 
“At the gates?” She was almost appalled.

  “He could not enter.”

  “I gave him blanket permission to enter these rooms.”

  “Yes, Terafin.”

  She let that sink in as she walked, and her steps grew heavier, more cumbersome, with the thoughts that now accompanied them. She thought she might add a visit to the Order of Knowledge to her schedule. She wanted to speak with Sigurne Mellifas.

  * * *

  • • •

  Meralonne was, as Avandar had said, at the gates. She saw him the moment she left the great hall and reached the height of the stone stairs that led up to the doors from the outside. She had almost expected him to be surrounded by the wild wind, as was his wont when he fought; he was not. His feet were on the ground, but his attention was riveted to the fountain, as if by a blacksmith.

  What he saw, she thought, was what Calliastra had seen—or if not the same, at least as grand, as lofty in height. And what she saw?

  A song. A ridiculous, political song, written by The Wayelyn.

  She lowered her chin, squaring her shoulders to brace herself, as if this meeting were hard, physical labor. It was not, of course. The Terafin was not required to do that physical labor, and if she tried, she upset the Household Staff. Or worse, their terrifying master.

  Meralonne became aware of her slowly; his gaze fell from the heights to the level of the merely mortal, and when it did, their eyes met. He tendered her a fluid, graceful bow, and he held that effortless supplication for too long. When he rose, his eyes were silver light, his hair a curtain of pale white that seemed all of Winter.

  He did not step into the courtyard. Instead, he waited, forcing her to descend if she wished to speak to him without shouting.

  “Speak,” Shadow said, having nudged Avandar out of the way to occupy his preferred position by her side. “Shouting here is bad.”

  “Will you not enter?” Jewel asked, although she did begin to move.