“I need to speak with you,” The Terafin said, to the guildmaster.
Sigurne nodded.
“I will come to you,” Jewel then said, giving weight to the difference in age and mobility, as she had been raised to do.
But Meralonne said, “No, Sigurne. Meet The Terafin at her seat of power. You will be required, in the end, to do so; begin as you must continue.” And he, too, looked across the small expanse of sky underlined by the existence of this tower, and his gaze was, for a moment, kin to Sigurne’s.
* * *
• • •
“Terafin?” Barston’s tone was pinched, which suited his expression.
Jewel swallowed. “Belay that,” she told him. “The Guildmaster of the Order of Knowledge will come here.”
“When?”
“This afternoon.” She nodded and turned before Barston could ask any further questions. Her back turned toward him, she said, “After our meeting, I will attend the Guildmaster of the Order of Makers.” She swept from the room, glancing only once at Teller’s closed doors.
No one spoke as she walked the length of the public gallery which led away from the right-kin’s rooms. Those offices were meant for the men and women considered worthy of The Terafin’s personal time, and in general, that meant, or had meant, they were monied, powerful.
The offices in which she did her own work were far less grand, and it was for that reason that no meeting of import occurred there. If the office was used at all, it was used for House business.
She was losing all sense of what House business was, and knew it. She had promised Amarais that she would take—and hold—the reins of power when Amarais was no longer there to do it; that she would preserve what The Terafin had built. But her gaze swept out, and out again: to the spires, to the peaks of Avantari, and beyond them all, to the bay, to the hundred holdings, to the statue of Moorelas, the mortal chosen to accompany the four princes of the Winter Court in their ride into Allasakar’s shadow.
She could see the Ellariannatte that graced the Common, could see the outline of the Merchant Authority, and in the same line, the new Merchants’ guildhall. None of these things were Terafin.
She was not surprised to find herself in the forest that hid behind the manse; she had walked and was walking. Shadow was by her side, and the Chosen walked ahead; Avandar had surrendered his position to the gray cat with a modicum of annoyance but no real anger. The silver leaves above her moved, adding a metallic tinkle to the breeze at play above her head.
She could hear the movements of the forest’s denizens, and as she walked, could hear their voices. She was not surprised when the trees themselves briefly exposed their hearts, and two people stepped out from the illusory space in the bark. Their skin was golden, and they were of a height, slender, tall, with hair that seemed at times to be bark brown, and at times to be vine and leaf.
“Jewel,” one said. “The Councillor bid us greet you, and so we have.”
“Have you come to lead me to him?”
“Ah, no. You do not require an escort; you cannot be lost in this forest. Nor can we be hidden. The Councillor has played such games of hide-and-seek—that is what you call it among your kin?”
Jewel nodded.
“But there is no way to hide from you here, and in truth, if there was, the one hidden would feel little triumph, for he must remain apart.” The woman, silent until this point, now offered Jewel an arm.
Jewel took that arm, not up to the task of explaining that certain manners were best left to the patricians on the other side of the forest. If Haval had taught them this, she would have words with him. But if he had, he had not taught them to clothe themselves as if they were of that patriciate; the vines and leaves that were hair were also, in some fashion, clothing, but clothing seemed irrelevant to her now.
Haval was not, as she had expected him to be, by the tree of fire. Nor was he alone. She recognized the golden fox that now sat in Haval’s arms; it was the fox who spoke, and Haval who listened. Or so it appeared. Haval’s face was absent expression until he turned to her. He set the fox on the ground—which was clearly not the fox’s desire—and tendered Jewel a perfect bow, its fluidity undiminished by Haval’s apparent age.
There were many things she could have said. “Rise,” however, was the first word out of her mouth. He obeyed, his expression carefully guarded.
Shadow glanced at the fox in a speculative way. Jewel dropped a hand to the top of his head. “Not now,” she said.
“But not never?” Shadow asked, with genuine curiosity.
She ignored the question. To Haval, she said, “The House Mage has resigned.”
Haval nodded. He did not ask her what had occurred in her absence and did not offer her anything that might be remotely construed as welcome or comfort. And why, she thought, would she desire the latter?
“We believe we are now capable of defending your lands in his stead.”
“Did you send Jarven?”
“No, Terafin.”
“Did he bring you any remotely useful information?”
“Almost certainly. How it is to be used, however, is not yet clear.” Haval smiled then; it was a cool smile. Distant.
“How is Hannerle?”
The smile deepened. “Were any other to ask that question at this time, it would be a very subtle threat.”
“I’m not stupid enough—I will never be stupid enough—to threaten your wife.”
“No, Terafin. Only stupid enough to feel strong affection for her. It is a stupidity I share. She is, as you discern, unhappy with me. Were it not for your existence, were it not for Teller and Finch, she would have ejected me from our store, our home, and her life.”
Jewel winced.
“She does not believe that you can handle what now happens on your own. She believes that I am necessary.”
“And you aren’t above using that belief against her.”
“I happen, at the moment, to believe as she does. It is why she believes it. I made one promise to her, decades past: I would not lie to her. I have not. Where I cannot speak truth, I do not speak. She dislikes silence,” he added.
But Jewel remembered. To the fox she said, “Have you ever visited the tangle?”
Brows twitched so suddenly Jewel thought the fox was sneezing—but without the sound. “The tangle,” he said, when he spoke, “is not here.”
“The tangle is everywhere, if I understand what Corallonne was saying.”
“You met her?”
“Yes. Calliastra is not the only firstborn we encountered on the way.”
“You should not have brought her here. She is not a danger to us—not a danger to your trees or the ancients who have but recently stirred. But she is a danger to you and your kin.”
“She is a danger—when she chooses to be—to anyone. It is not only my kind that have perished at her hands.”
The fox blinked. Haval did not.
“She has told you this?” the fox asked.
“How else would I know it?”
The fox opened his mouth, but Haval knelt to retrieve him from the forest floor, and the words that he might have spoken did not follow. Instead he said, “They are waking . . . soon.”
“I heard the horns,” Jewel replied. “The horns of the heralds. I heard them while I stood in my own courtyard, in my own home.” Her hands were shaking; they had become fists while she had been speaking, as if they did not quite belong to her.
“Yes. Should you desire to preserve your city, what must you do?”
“Find Ariane. She is the only person to whom they might listen.”
“If her own kin cannot find her, how will you?”
Jewel said, “Her own kin weren’t seer-born. Her own kin weren’t maker-born. Her own kin,” she added, after one long exhale that seemed to empty her body of br
eath, “weren’t Sen.”
“Even so,” Haval said, inclining his chin. “You wished to speak with me.”
“To seek your counsel,” Jewel replied, her words heavy with irony.
His smile acknowledged it. “Jarven was not attacked by demons.”
“The claws—”
“They were, if he is to be believed, caused by a great, gray wolf. Or two. They were not,” he added, “wolves in any sense of the word that is currently fashionable. They were, however, mounts.”
“Mounts.”
“Yes, Terafin. They were ridden by the Arianni in the lands outside of your own. But it is, in the end, into these lands they must travel.”
“They don’t have my permission.”
“No. I admit that I found that slightly confusing, given the emphasis on such permission—but permission grants only safe passage, not passage. Where the wilderness is concerned, the greater power is always in the figurative right.”
Silence for a long, stretched beat. “He met the heralds.”
“That is my belief.”
“Did he injure them?”
“Yes, but not fatally.”
The fox’s whiskers twitched.
“You sent him,” Jewel said, turning her attention to him as he so obviously desired.
“I did. But not against his will. If I am his master—and in some fashion I am—it is a dubious claim. In the end, he will do what he wishes. He has a freedom of movement that I do not outside of your own domain. And, Jewel, it is clear to all who dwell here that you do not desire the Sleepers to wake.
“But were you not the Lord of these lands, they would already be awake.”
The fox nodded. “What you must do, Terafin, you must do soon.”
I don’t know what I must do. She wanted to scream the words. Her life to this point had taught her the weight of responsibility—and the cost of failing it. It had taught her that some responsibilities could not be completely shouldered; they were not like the pack she wore strapped to her waist. They could not be carried in the same way.
She exhaled again. “My rooms have changed.”
Haval nodded, as if this information was not new to him.
“Has anyone else tried to kill Finch in my absence?”
“Or Teller?”
She stiffened.
“No, Terafin. Finch is both more and less protected than she was before Jarven became distracted. Teller, however, is safe. If Haerrad once broke his limbs as a warning to you, he has come full circle. Teller is right-kin.”
“And Rymark?”
“Rymark is not, sadly, within your lands at the moment. As you would know if you paused to consider it. I do not believe he is dead.”
“How long do I have?” she asked, yearning now for the warmth of the sole tree she had planted from the fire of her enemies. The forest answered. The tree appeared.
But no, she thought, it was not the same tree. It was a different tree, and she had called it into being with the desperation of the unspoken desire. She was afraid now.
Haval sensed it; he must have. He pinched the bridge of his nose, and the gesture—which indicated frustration or annoyance, and always had—was a comfort. As much of a comfort as the whining squabbles of her cats when they were bored.
“Not long. Not long at all. The forest was relieved when you arrived.”
“You weren’t.”
“No. I am seldom given to feelings of relief; they are lies that we tell ourselves in order to function with a modicum of normalcy. You have not yet finished whatever quest you have undertaken; that your path brought you here is, if not coincidence, then luck. What can be done to prepare your lands for invasion has been done, and the city will stand in your absence.
“But it is my belief that it will not stand for long. I have nothing of value to report to you, and very little advice to offer.”
“And the advice?”
“Keep Shadow by your side.”
She heard, or thought she heard, Snow’s outraged hiss.
“And keep moving. Do not tarry here. This is the heart of your personal fiefdom; it is your strength. If it cannot stand on its own in your brief absence, nothing will survive.”
She nodded. “Tell my guests to ready themselves for our departure. I must speak with Sigurne before I return.”
* * *
• • •
Sigurne arrived so quickly she must have left for the Terafin manse the moment Meralonne had stopped speaking. Jewel suspected that she had used magic as a means of transport. The absence of Matteos Corvel cemented this suspicion.
Jewel had been undecided about the venue for their meeting; the river with its waterfall made traversing the distance between the doors and the castle itself a damp, chilly prospect, and Sigurne was not young. She was saved from having to make the decision by the guildmaster’s hasty arrival.
The guildmaster’s smile was complicated. She had been ushered into the right-kin’s outer office as a matter of protocol, but the page seemed surprised to see Jewel there.
“Terafin,” Sigurne said. She offered Jewel a bow that was far less fluid or graceful than the bows that she’d otherwise witnessed recently. Jewel almost told her not to bother, the gesture seemed so superfluous. But Barston was already annoyed with her, if not actually angry, and she wasn’t willing to add to the burden by bypassing protocols he would consider the bare necessities.
“Sigurne.”
The guildmaster rose. If she was surprised by the use of her name, she kept it to herself. Or perhaps she was weary enough that it simply didn’t matter. Jewel offered her an arm, and Sigurne took it, allowing Jewel to bear, for a moment, a larger part of her weight.
“I apologize for my appearance,” the guildmaster said. “The wind is not kind to mortal hair or clothing. You look peaked, Terafin.”
Jewel almost laughed at the pinched expression. It was not an expression well suited to the woman who oversaw the Order of Knowledge. Jewel lifted a hand to cover her mouth—something she had trained herself not to do when dealing with the powerful.
Sigurne’s face froze. She did not speak again for one long minute, and Jewel saw strands of orange-and-blue light surround her, as if they were forming a veil over her eyes, her face. “He is wrong,” she finally said.
Jewel blinked. “Wrong?” She shook herself then. “My apologies, Guildmaster. I have only barely returned to the manse, and I cannot stay. Will you keep me company while I prepare?”
Barston’s jaw made a sound—Jewel would have sworn it—as it fell open.
“I would be honored, Terafin,” Sigurne replied. “It is seldom that I keep company in circumstances the powerful consider so casual.”
“Let me apologize in advance for the state of my personal rooms.”
“They have changed?”
“Markedly, I’m sorry to say.”
* * *
• • •
Jewel was forewarned enough that umbrellas and oilskins were procured for the guildmaster before she walked through the doors that had once led to a library. Sigurne accepted the need for both without comment; her eyes were bright in the worn, weary map of her face.
Jewel noted that Sigurne now wore a ring that was similar in size and shape to the ring Ellerson wore. It was similar in some ways to the ring she herself wore, but she would never have mistaken them were they laid side by side.
“Meralonne told you that he had resigned?”
“Yes. He . . . did not feel that a House Mage was relevant to Terafin for the foreseeable future. I will add,” she said, her voice dry as kindling, “that rumor of his resignation has spread throughout the Order like brush fire. I have had dozens of requests—some wheedling and some demanding—to be recommended as his replacement.”
“Are they aware that he was working for free?”
“Oh, indeed. And three of the men in question have offered to pay you, if that is what is required to be accepted.”
“I do not envy you your position.”
“No. But it is fair; I do not envy you yours. I will assume that you did not consider the full effects of proximity to waterfalls.”
“No.”
“I have seen so few of them, myself. I find this both striking and uncomfortable.”
“It might be better if it were warmer.” Jewel exhaled. “How long do I have?” It was not the question she’d meant to ask; it was not the location at which she’d meant to ask it.
She was tired. No, it was more than that; she was afraid. She considered fear to be wisdom, in this case. The Lord of the Hells was in the world, and if he weren’t, the Sleepers—almost gods in their own right—were waking beneath the thin surface of earth over which the whole of Averalaan had been built in the shadows of history.
The city housed everyone she cared about. Some, she could save. She was certain that her den—those who remained within the manse or the forests that whispered her name—would survive.
But Farmer Hanson would not. Helen, in her stalls of mismatched cloth and clothing, would not. Taverson and his family would not. Not unless the Sleepers could either be controlled or reasoned with. The man who knew them best gave no chance at all for the latter, and really only one for the former.
“Not long now. Where you travel, where you must travel, time flows differently. Tell me, can you hear the heralds?”
Jewel nodded.
“I could not, until I donned this ring. I hear their horns now at all hours, and they are growing louder. Closer. It is, to me, a small miracle that they have not already arrived.”
“Does he think that you’ll survive?”
“At this point it is his only concern. Kings, demons, duties—they are becoming irrelevant. He knows this, and he fights against it—but, Terafin, it is my opinion that he is fighting his very nature. There is, in him, a light that has begun to burn.” She did not mention Meralonne by name.
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