“No, Terafin. It is no longer safe to do so.”
“For you, or for me?”
One brow rose. He carried no sword, but also no pipe.
“Do you have a report for me?” she asked, as she approached, the gurgle of falling water a constant sound that underlay all her words without overwhelming them.
“None that will give you information you do not already possess. You have brought the Winter people.”
Jewel inclined her head. “We walked the tangle.”
Both of his brows rose then.
“And I met the Winter King. They served him. You would know this if you spoke with them.”
He inclined his head. “Winter was new, when they walked it. They would know me, Terafin, and they would not. It is too dangerous to remain among them.” He shook his head, as if to clear it, and reached for something.
“Pipe,” Jewel said, almost as if compelling him, her breath held after the release of the single word. But he did withdraw his pipe, and as he set about lining the bowl with dry leaves, she felt herself relax.
“Where,” he asked as he worked, “did you get the ring you now wear?”
She blinked. The ring had become almost part of her hand, she had become so accustomed to its light—but that should be wrong; she had worn it for so little time. She lifted the hand, placing it between them. “What do you see when you look at it?”
“I see the White Lady’s name,” he replied. His eyes seemed to catch the subtle radiance of the metallic band and absorb it; they grew in brilliance, gray passing into silver and beyond. “But no, that is not all I see. It is not a ring of binding, and it is not a ring of promise. Those, she gave when she chose to honor those who were not her own kin. It is of her, in a way that no other such rings are, or were.
“You are Sen, but even so, I would say the creation of such a thing is beyond you. If the elders believe that the Sen had no limitations, they are wrong. You could dream of the White Lady, but you could not—ever—create her.”
“I didn’t create it.”
“No. Who did?”
“Gilafas,” she replied. When Meralonne did not speak, she added, “He took the strands of the Winter Queen’s hair.”
His eyes shifted, his brows rose. “You gave him those?”
“No.” She hesitated. “And yes. I wanted—” She swallowed air awkwardly, and in a rush. “I think I wanted him to create something which would keep her gift safe.”
“None would dare to take what the White Lady offered you.”
She hadn’t exactly offered it, but Jewel did not correct him. “None of your people would, no. But the world is not only Ariane’s. Nor was it ever. Three strands of hair, Meralonne. Three delicate strands. Nothing, now, will take them.” And speaking it, she knew the words for truth.
“That is not all he took.”
She did not speak of the pendant. “The hair, the leaves of my forest.”
His eyes widened again, and he spoke a word that Jewel did not quite hear, could not quite retain. The pipe listed in a hand that appeared to be suddenly nerveless.
“If you asked my advice, I would tell you to remove it and hide it. Were you any other person, such an attempt would fail, but you are Sen; there are places where you might hide that light that would protect it from discovery.”
She shook her head.
“Do you understand what it is?”
“No. And you know this.”
His smile was slender, sharp. It was also breathtaking. She realized then that she had never seen joy shadow his face before. But it was here, in the light of his eyes, in the lift of his lips, in the perfect lines of his unfettered smile. She thought he might have looked like this in a youth so distant even the gods had been young. “Yes, Terafin. I will ask no more. But even my brethren would think twice about fighting you should they see that ring.”
“If you would counsel me to hide it—”
“My brethren are not the only enemies you will face. Your Ellerson has returned.”
She nodded.
“Do you understand what it is he now wears? It is a lesser work, but a work nonetheless.”
“What he wears?” She tried to think back to what Ellerson had been wearing, but the familiar suit imposed itself over true recall.
“I will assume that that is a no.” He spoke with the familiar condescension that his graceful, fluid bow had almost obliterated. She had no desire to examine why this made her more comfortable. “I recognize it. The wilderness will see it, and they will not reach the same understanding unless they understand mortals and mortality.” He blew lazy smoke circles in the air, misshapen but complete; they drifted above his head, untouched by the breeze that altered the fall of his hair.
“The time is coming,” he said softly. “Ask Sigurne what she wears. Ask her why.”
Jewel said, “I’m not ready yet.”
“No, Terafin. No more am I. But time turns, regardless. For you, time is death. Near or far, it is death. I cannot enter your abode now. I believe that soon, I will not be able to enter your forests.”
“But you have my permission to do so.”
“No, Terafin. What I will be when I wake is not what you have given permission to, and if you are foolish enough, or cowardly enough, to look away from that truth, you know it on some level. Your forest knows. Your servants—the immortals, who turn by the seasons that have governed my long existence, with one brief sojourn—also know. They bear me no enmity yet, although one of the eldest thinks he might save you all grief by orchestrating my early demise.” He smiled at the outrage of her expression.
“Why did you come?”
“To tender my farewell. I will no longer be able to serve as the Terafin House Mage.”
“You will return to the Order of Knowledge?”
“No, Terafin. Nor will I accompany you on the journey you must undertake. But I am comforted, nonetheless. You will have with you men who, if not singly the equal of me, will nonetheless serve in my stead. They are the White Lady’s, and they will understand the import of your mission. They will understand it far, far better than you.”
“And Shianne?”
“I will speak with Shianne before the ways are fully closed. She is my only regret.”
“You will not harm her.”
“Even were that my intent—and I admit to you, whose sight is deep when turned, that I have considered it long and hard—I cannot. She is not without power; she is merely, now, without time. I could kill her; I could not do so here. She understands that, as well as I. And where there is no hope of success, I am no longer a youth; I will not throw myself against that wall until I am bruised and bloody.” He stopped speaking then, and lifted his head, turning it slightly toward the grassland and path that led to this place. “Can you not hear them, Terafin?”
And the worst thing was, she could.
Horns.
* * *
• • •
They were like voices, like raised voices; they had tone and texture that implied not music, but speech. There existed a mournful dissonance as those notes played out. After a moment, she could separate them; there was not one horn, but three.
“They don’t call you,” she said, almost without thought.
“No, Terafin. They have been sent on wayward paths by the wilderness, both High and Low, but in the end, they cannot be kept from their masters. Not now.”
“You did not sleep.”
“I did not fail.” He paused, and then added, “Nor did I succeed. And sleep, I think, would have been a kindness. But if I did not sleep, I am not awake. It is coming.” He glanced again in the direction of those horns.
“Will you recognize us at all?” Jewel finally asked, as the notes softened into stillness and muted wind.
“If you cannot answer that, Sen, I cannot. I w
ill know Sigurne. And I believe, in the end, I will know you—but you, too, are waking. Or perhaps you ask me the question you will not ask yourself. I am a danger to your kind, to your kin, but not the danger I will become. You are the same. Perhaps we will both find answers that are, in the end, pleasing to us.”
“You were never what I was.”
“No, Terafin. But I have lived centuries now as if I were. My kin change slowly, when we can be moved to change at all; I do not believe I would have changed had the world not shifted beneath my feet. Change is not a boon to the immortal; it is like death. It is as final, in some fashion, but far less convenient.” He then gently upended the ash from his pipe, and the wind swept it away before it made contact with stone, as if he intended to leave no trace of his passing in his wake.
He handed the pipe to her. “Take it, in the hope that you might return it to me, and I might smoke and converse in future; there is and has been no need for pipe among my own. Lord Celleriant dislikes it intensely,” he added, with a trace of petty amusement.
“He hates everything,” Shadow said, speaking for the first time. Jewel had almost forgotten he existed.
“He is the youngest, and the last,” Meralonne replied, speaking as he often did when confronted with a talking cat. “Eldest, I do not understand your duties here. But Celleriant was given in service to The Terafin for a reason.”
“She was annoyed at his failure,” Jewel said.
“Is that how you truly see it?” He bowed. “Were it in my hands, I would fight the war at the side of your Chosen, both mortal and immortal. It is not.”
Jewel cleared her throat. “They served the Winter King.”
“Yes.”
“He is dead.”
“Yes. And so their service to you is compromised, incomplete. But if they understand what it is you carry, and why, they will be utterly and completely yours until the moment you relieve yourself of that burden. Nothing will deter them. Not the Sleepers, and in the end, not even I. But they will not mindlessly obey.”
She looked at him, held his gaze. “I don’t understand the firstborn concept of children,” she finally said. “But mindless obedience was never, ever your strength.”
At that, he smiled. “I remember my lost more clearly than you remember yours, but we are both haunted, and by our own will.”
“Will you—will you stand beside them when they wake?”
“I do not know. But I will not lie to you now, so close to the end of things. I desire it. I desire it as greatly as the old and feeble among you desire their youth. Perhaps, as is true of your kind, that youth is gone; it is a dream because the desire cannot encompass truth or reality. I wish to see them again. I wish to hear their voices.” He turned.
The song of horns began anew.
* * *
• • •
Shadow growled.
Meralonne bowed again, then turned and walked—walked—away.
Jewel did not follow; instead, she turned back to the castle and her own sleeping kin. Avandar had not approached the House Mage or the former House Mage. Nor did he approach Jewel; he waited until she had once again mounted the steps.
He remained silent as she found her room and remained silent as she returned to it.
“I don’t think the clothing is appropriate,” she finally said.
“We will travel?”
She nodded, her hands numb.
“Fabril’s reach.”
She nodded again. “I don’t know where we’ll end up. They’ll probably turn us away at the door—or at least ask us to use the servants’ entrance—if we prepare for any outcome. But I’d rather be turned away up front than freeze to death.”
He did not ask any further questions.
But the Winter King said, I will be there.
Finch was not quite awake. Jewel watched her move slowly out of sleep and remembered, clearly, Rath’s apartment, and their first room there. Teller had stayed with the girls. So had Duster. So many shadows, in this darkness, cast by things that were not actually in the room.
Finch woke. She smiled, rubbing her eyes, and looking much younger than she did when she armored herself in the daily clothing she wore to the Merchant Authority. It made Jewel feel young again, and here, youth was not an advantage. Or perhaps it was just the growing uncertainty she felt. None of her training and none of her experience had prepared her for what she was facing.
Not none, Avandar said. He glanced about the room for Ellerson, but the domicis failed to appear, and he then gathered the various items of clothing that Finch had removed from her own rooms and laid them out for her.
She dressed slowly, looking around the oddly lit room until she saw Shadow. Prowling winged cats seem to be a comfort to her, which was fair; they were, in the end, a comfort to Jewel.
You have met the Winter Queen. You have bested her. You have seen gods, you have seen the firstborn, you have walked both the Stone and Green Deepings. You have fought the Wardens of Dream and Nightmare. You have faced a Duke of the Hells, and you have forced him to retreat. You have commanded the wild earth, water, and air, denying them free rein in the lands you have claimed. You have faced the Oracle and walked the Oracle’s path. If there is experience to prepare you for what we all face, what form do you think it would take, if not the life you have lived?
She had no reply to offer.
“Will you speak with Barston?” Finch asked, when she had finished dressing.
“No. I can’t face Barston this early in the morning. Unless it’s a choice between Barston and the Master of the Household Staff.”
Finch laughed.
“I’d personally rather face demons.”
Finch’s laughter trailed into a gentle smile. “If not Barston, do you intend to address the House Council at all?”
Jewel was silent for a beat. “I’m grateful,” she finally said, “that you’re my regent.”
“Which means no.”
“I’ll take Barston.”
“I’d take the Master of the Household Staff, myself. She is splendidly intimidating. I’ve watched her at work, and I did consider attempting to mimic her, but I don’t possess the force of personality she does.” She paused and added, “Do we have umbrellas and rainwear?”
“Yes,” a familiar voice said. “It took some searching to find.” Ellerson nodded to Avandar and stepped in. “I am not certain how easy it will be to attend to both you and the rest of the den, but I shall make the attempt in future.”
* * *
• • •
If the Chosen were surprised when Finch, Jewel, and Avandar emerged from the staid doors to The Terafin’s chambers somewhat damp, they kept it to themselves, as they always did.
The servants were less circumspect, but everyone expected that. None of them spoke directly to The Terafin, but the way they stilled, and the way they turned to each other almost before she had passed them, was noticeable. Jewel didn’t mind this. The Master of the Household Staff would have had a hissy fit to make the cats envious in comparison, and that thought was amusing. But the servants reminded her of Carver, because Carver had always been their necessary entry into the Household Staff.
Barston rose immediately when The Terafin entered the right-kin’s office. The outer office was almost empty; there was a man in a reasonably tailored suit who rose as well. They offered Jewel their perfect, silent bows, and she nodded them back to their chairs, clenching her ring hand as she did.
She had left the Terafin ring in the keeping of the Oracle, and it had not magically returned to her. This was the first time she had missed it.
Barston returned to his seat. He immediately reached for one of the several books that stood on his desk, spine toward him so that contents were not instantly understood by observers, and opened it.
Jewel, however, said, “I expect that my schedule
is currently empty.”
He lifted his eyes, achieving the baleful expression that was not, quite, a glare. “It is currently open, yes.”
She lifted a ringless hand. “I require an immediate meeting with Sigurne Mellifas. Location is of little consequence; I am willing to travel. I am not, however, finished the responsibilities I have undertaken. I have returned to retrieve necessary items, not to stay. Not yet.”
“And when will you be back to stay?” From Barston, this was almost a shout. It was, however, better than she possibly deserved as ruler of the House.
“I am, as of yet, uncertain. Time does not pass in the same way in all the lands I have walked since leaving. It might—with luck—be tomorrow. It might be an hour from now. And it might be months. Before I leave, however, I must speak with the Guildmaster of the Order of Knowledge.”
Barston’s nod was clipped. Had he dispensed with the nod, it wouldn’t have mattered; she had given him the equivalent of an order, and he would obey.
* * *
• • •
Jewel sent Ellerson to the West Wing with Finch. She did not choose to accompany them. She wanted to speak with Haval, and she needed to speak with Sigurne. The former was not in the wing; she did not know where the latter was currently situated.
But even thinking that, she felt uneasy, because she was suddenly certain that Sigurne Mellifas stood at the height of the Order’s Tower, not in her room, and not in the very inconvenient chambers that adjoined them, but back from the crenellations, where the open wind might reach her upturned face.
She was not alone.
And perhaps that was why Jewel knew where she was, of a sudden. She knew.
Meralonne bowed. She thought, in this odd vision, that he bowed to Sigurne, as he had come to bow to her: in leave-taking. But Sigurne Mellifas, her age unfeigned, turned away from him, turned to look at the object of that greeting.
Jewel’s gaze met hers.
Sigurne’s brows did not even rise, but the lines of her face changed the shape of her expression. There was sorrow in it, and fear, but there was also resignation and a weariness that was so sudden and so complete, Jewel wondered if it would ever leave her face.
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