War

by Michelle West

  Jester was leaning against the trunk of the burning tree; Teller was standing back from it, his arms moving, his elbows jogging slightly as he used his hands to speak. Jester, arms folded, used words instead, because they were easier.

  Arann was not here; he was, and would remain, with the Chosen. Finch had accepted that more readily than Jay. Angel was with Jay. Adam was with Jay. Finch had not been home when Snow had stalked into the West Wing, but she had heard about it—and even if she hadn’t, the gouges he’d left in Adam’s closed door were testament enough to his mood.

  He had not taken Ariel with him. She remained in the West Wing, forlorn and silent. Although the den attempted to speak with her, to interact with her, she was comfortable with Adam and Shadow. Everyone else came a very distant second.

  “Finch.”

  She blinked. Jester had called her name.

  “Where’s Jarven?”

  “I don’t know.” At Jester’s expression, she added, “He has no keepers. Not even Lucille can keep him on schedule if he becomes distracted.”

  “Fine. Can you tell Haval that?”

  “I already did.” She grimaced. “Haval knows Jarven better than any of us. There is no way he expects us to have actual information.”

  “He lives,” a familiar voice said, “in hope.”

  Finch did not gape; nor did Teller or Jester, although both turned in the direction of that voice.

  Andrei, servant to Hectore of Araven, stood in the clearing around the tree. The sound of crackling fire grew subtly louder; the movement of chiming leaves stilled. The forest did not like Andrei. Jay did. It was comforting to know that it was Jay’s affection that won out. But she could be honest with herself in the silence. Were she Andrei, were the forest to react the way it did when he entered it, she would never have come here at all. She could almost hear the forest’s voice, raised in warning and hostility.

  Andrei, however, seemed either inured to it or resigned. He bowed to Finch—a full sweeping motion, appropriate for The Terafin herself—and rose, his eyes dark.

  “Hectore is not with you?”

  “No. Nor is he best pleased to be at home—but his presence is required; it is his grandson’s birthday.”

  “He allowed you to come on your own?”

  “You needn’t be so surprised, ATerafin. It is not the first time I have chosen to work in isolation.”

  “Circumstances are different, at least according to the cats.”

  “Yes. It is my suspicion that Hectore does not fully apprehend this.”

  “He will,” Haval said. He had appeared as if by magic.

  “Indeed. But it is my hope that he—and his family—will be safely ensconced behind their walls when he does.” His smile was almost rueful.

  “Given what the elders in the forest fear, it is scant hope.”

  “I am not as you are,” Andrei replied, stiff with a servant’s dignity. “While I stand, Hectore will be safe.”

  “Interesting. The Araven manse is secure?”

  “It is.”

  “You will not, of course, tell me how; I will not ask it. I will ask instead how large an area such protections might be stretched to cover.”

  Andrei’s smile was slender, but genuine. “I am accepted nowhere.”

  “Nowhere except Araven?”

  “Even so.”

  “And were you to be accepted—”

  “It is not a matter of simple discussion, simple argument, mortal persuasion. I am tolerated. This forest tolerates me—but it does not do so gladly, and without The Terafin’s immutable will, I would never have found you here. What I can do for Hectore, I am unable to do for the rest of the city.”

  Haval considered this.

  It was Birgide, appearing as suddenly as Haval himself had, who said, “He is right. I believe that Andrei could be persuaded to make the attempt, but it would not, in the end, be successful.” She glanced at the Araven servant, but her eyes slid almost instantly to the side. What she could see as Warden of Jay’s forest was not what Finch saw.

  Haval, however, nodded. “The Astari?” he asked, which surprised Finch.

  It did not surprise Birgide. Her eyes were bloodred, with a hint of the orange of reflected flame. “Sigurne and the magi have been summoned to Avantari; the High Priests—the god-born—have been summoned as well. They intend to meet at Moorelas’ statue in the holdings.”

  “When?”

  Birgide closed her disturbing eyes. “Three hours hence, perhaps less.”

  “You did not ask what they intended.”

  “I did not feel the information was required. Should you disagree, you might feel free to approach Duvari yourself.”

  And at that, Jarven ATerafin’s loud and dismissive snort could be heard as he, too, joined them in the clearing.

  * * *

  • • •

  He was smiling broadly, and Finch thought the smile genuine. Everything about his expression was sharp. Where Haval had chosen neutrality as his governing interaction this eve, Jarven had dropped it entirely. She was glad that Lucille was not present; Lucille would be disgusted, and she did not deserve that.

  “You are wearing your matron’s expression, Finch,” Jarven observed.

  “I was thinking about Lucille. What have you come to report?”

  “Report?”

  “I am regent in The Terafin’s absence. I assume that you traveled here to give your report.”

  He laughed. It was loud, bold, compelling. As was he, at the moment—at least to Finch; Jester appeared to be highly unamused. “You assume no such thing.”

  “You have always understood me,” she replied, smiling gently. “But in this, Jarven, you are wrong. I am regent—as you once intended—and I do, indeed, make that assumption.”

  His smile deepened. “Do you, by chance, understand what I now am?”

  “You are Jarven.” She folded her arms.

  “That is not a good look on you, my dear. You have neither the age nor the size to carry it off to perfection.”

  She didn’t budge.

  Haval, however, did. He came to stand beside Finch, his hands clasped loosely behind his back. “If she has been your charge, ATerafin, she has been my responsibility. We do not have time to play these games.”

  “And yet, play them we must,” Jarven replied. But he met Haval’s gaze. “You are not dressed for tailoring.”

  “No. In the days to come, I fear that making will be beyond me.”

  “But not breaking, Haval?” He spoke the name with too much emphasis.

  “As you say. Have you spoken with Duvari?”

  “Duvari is not my concern.”

  “What did he say?”

  Jarven rolled his eyes. “You are the death of fun.”

  “I believe I always was, in your estimation.”

  “The Kings are required in the ceremony of the god-born. He will not—and cannot—spare further effort to oversee, how did he put it? Terafin’s petty problems at this time.”

  “I see you managed to offend him before he spoke.”

  “Duvari thrives on offense taken, as you well know. You chose him, after all.”

  “You did not disapprove.”

  “I did.”

  “Not in a substantive way.” He glanced briefly at Finch. “Regent.” He bowed. “We await your command.”

  * * *

  • • •

  She had no command to offer. The regency she had desired—the regency she had accepted—had nothing to do with forests and a wilderness that was sentient, alive, and dangerous even when at peace. The lessons she had learned over the decade by Jarven’s side had accentuated things human, things mundane; greed, dishonesty, ambition—to be sure—but also their opposite. It was their opposite that had surprised her, but that was almost
a given considering the way she had come to her den, the only family that now mattered to her.

  Yet Haval waited, and clearly meant to wait, until she spoke. Jarven did the same, a malicious twinkle in his eyes. Jester moved, and she lifted one hand in swift den-sign, understanding that, ready or not, she had accepted the regency. Jay was not here. She was certain that Jay would return if she still lived, but she could not be certain when; Jay herself did not know.

  Teller, however, she did not still with either word or gesture; he was right-kin, and his place was by the side of the ruler of Terafin. Finch.

  Jay, she thought. What would you do?

  No answer came to her: no instinct; no certainty.

  No certainty but this: she had chosen to become the leader of Terafin, and she must lead. If she did not, it would likely be Haerrad who would; he was a man suited to, situated for, war.

  And there was war here, waiting just below the surface of a tense and desperate peace: there were gleaming weapons, polished spears, and flames that had detached from the branches of the tree of fire as if they were simple leaves. Those leaves burned nothing, no matter where they fell. Ah, not nothing; Jarven attempted to pick one up. He did not make a second attempt.

  She had no doubt in future he would, and the results would be different.

  “Where,” she asked, hardening her voice, “are the heralds?” It was not spoken as a plea; there was no fear in the words. She wanted the information, and wanted it now.

  Jarven’s expression lost light and joy instantly, his face becoming as expressionless as Haval’s. She felt Teller shift; she was certain Jester was annoyed. Annoyed and alert. She smiled. “Please,” she said, not even attempting to keep the amusement from the single word. “I’ve worked beside you for over half my life. I know when you’re serious. And I know when you’re wasting time.”

  “This is the part where you fold your arms and scold me about dignity?”

  “I have never scolded you about your dignity or its possible lack. Dignity can, of course, be of use—but the lack has never harmed you. Unless you consider Lucille’s disappointment or annoyance harmful.”

  And his smile, when it returned, was slower to come, slighter. It was paternal; she recognized that now. But inasmuch as he had ever had the inclination, he had chosen to be a father to her. A distant father, one who might let his child fall off a cliff should she be foolish enough to attempt to scale it without knowledge or equipment.

  “Finch—”

  “I am not wasted here.”

  “No. You are benightedly necessary here, but I feel that I have perhaps worked against my own best interests for over a decade. You cannot threaten me,” he added.

  “I would not even make the attempt. In the end, I do not hold your name. It is possible that your name could be revoked if that were the will of the House Council—but that would take time and would, no doubt, involve the shedding of blood, none of which would be your own.”

  “Of course not.”

  “But if I do not hold your name, and hold only the passing glance of your loyalty, the forest is not the same. The elders are not the same. You have accepted the gift—and perhaps the duties that gift might entail—of one of the forest elders. And he serves The Terafin completely. There is no game you might play—with words, with weapons—that will move him or cause him to swerve.”

  “Ah, Finch, you are wrong. Were he not at least partly akin to me in nature, I would not now be here.”

  She nodded, unmoved. “He is, I think, like you. Unfettered, unclaimed, you would be rivals, and in the end, enemies. But he is unlike you as well. He is of the forest, Jarven, and the forest is Jay’s.”

  “Perhaps he is not pleased to be so,” Jarven countered, aware of the significance of the use of that name. His voice was now smooth, harder, inflected in a way that suggested he had finally turned the whole of his formidable intellect upon a very tricky negotiation. Finch had seen this only a handful of times in all the years she had been at the Authority. She felt a brief chill; while she had been a witness to it, she had never, ever been the person across the table from him.

  No, she had been serving tea and listening as if her life and future depended on it. She had been overlooked, but she had spent the majority of her life being overlooked. It had been safest.

  There was no safety now.

  She was no foundling now; she was no abandoned child. Kalliaris had smiled on Finch in her darkest hour, and she was here. She was Jay’s. She was den. She was regent.

  “Whether or not he is pleased to be so is irrelevant.”

  Haval lifted a hand in swift, almost invisible den-sign, but she was on alert now and caught it. Be careful.

  If caution had hierarchy, Finch had been among its generals. She did not answer, did not acknowledge. Teller moved again; Jester came to stand beside her. Neither spoke.

  “Irrelevant? That is harsh.” And standing by her ankles, his fur sleek and golden, was the fox.

  * * *

  • • •

  She bent to offer him the seat of her arms—it was hardly a cradle—and he accepted this as his due, allowing her to rise to her full height bearing his scant weight. It was not always scant.

  “You have fostered an interesting mortal,” the fox then told Jarven. If the den did not interrupt, and if Haval kept his distance, the fox felt no compunction. Then again, Jarven had said they were spiritual kin, and Jarven felt free to interrupt any event or conversation if the fancy struck him.

  “I have hardly fostered her,” Jarven replied. For the first time, he glanced away from Finch to meet the eyes of the creature that was, at the moment, his master.

  “I did not notice her,” the fox continued, as if Jarven had not spoken. Jarven’s face was smooth, neutral; he had adopted a mask of respect. It was only a mask, but it was like dignity, really; it fooled no one who was part of the conversation. Not the fox, certainly, and not Finch. Jarven would not expect otherwise. “I assumed she was like the others.”

  “But you expected her to carry you.”

  “Oh, indeed. Respect—as you well know—is necessary in the wilderness. I knew her because the forest knows her. I accept her because the heart of the forest sings her name, even in its quiet sleep. But she is bold in a way that I am not and will never be: timidly.”

  “She does not seem timid at the moment, Eldest.”

  “Does she not?” The fox’s nose tickled the underside of Finch’s chin, and Finch looked down. His eyes, like his fur, were golden. They were, in fact, the same shade of gold, and for a moment he seemed to her to be all eyes or, perhaps, sightless; it was disturbing. “But I bit her once, and I was ill for a day afterward. What exactly did you feed her?”

  “Cookies,” Finch said. “And tea. The very occasional meal.”

  “I was not asking you.”

  “When it comes to trivial details, it is often me you must ask; they are inconsequential to the powerful.” Her arms tightened almost instinctively.

  “You bit her.”

  “Once.”

  “You bit her.”

  “I believe I have repeated myself twice. I have spoken the words three times.” The last two syllables seemed to shake the forest, and the tree of fire shed leaves as if it were standing in a sudden gale. The fox’s tail grew longer, wilder, the fur splitting and elongating as if the whole of the tail had been a complicated, invisible braid that had now become undone. Gold crept up Finch’s arms and shoulders, twining around her neck, bypassing her mouth, her nose, and her eyes.

  Jester cursed, which wasn’t unusual.

  Teller repeated the single word, which was.

  Finch, however, said nothing. She did not even attempt to release the fox; the gesture, disturbing and oddly majestic, had made clear that he had no desire to be set down. Nor did she desire to do so. As if the table across which negoti
ations had started remained standing between them, she met Jarven’s gaze—when he had pulled it, finally, free of the fox’s eyes.

  “My dear,” he said, which was not promising. “Do you even begin to understand the game you intend to play? You have not yet set your piece upon the board, and I am willing to set this aside for another day, another time.” He spoke the words as if they were a munificent offer—and from Jarven, they were. But such an offer spoke of power, and even condescension; he was willing to, as Lucille sometimes put it, “play nice,” the implication being that she required it.

  She desired it. She always had. When people played nice, life was gentler and the difficulties less catastrophic. She played nice as a rule because she desired that gentler life. Jarven was not, had not been, against such a life. He had lived it for decades. But on occasion he set it aside completely as a reminder that he could. As a reminder of what he might do, should he set his mind on it.

  She understood what he offered now.

  He was her superior. He was a man who had done things that she herself could not do and survive. The Terafin offices in the Merchant Authority were safe precisely because he was unpredictable, and the stories of his youth were almost legend. One did not cross Jarven ATerafin.

  She had always known this. She had quietly pitied the pompous and overbearing men who assumed that Jarven was now in his dotage because he played a fool for his own amusement—and his own gain—as they would eventually discover. Also, to be fair, he liked to tweak Lucille.

  But Lucille would never, ever, have stood as Finch was standing now. Had Jarven always known that? Lucille had never been, never become, one in the long line of his protégés, some of who had not survived.

  “I understand it no better than you,” she replied. “But I understand it no less, either.”

  His brows rose. “Finch.”

  “Jarven.”

  “I haven’t the time to truly engage you. Let this wait.”

  “I haven’t the time to wait. I can, in theory, command you as regent. Your compliance would be as theoretical as my rulership.” She adjusted her grip. “But I am not, in the end, the woman to whom you owe either obedience or allegiance. Not even Amarais was, although you did back her in her early bid for the Terafin seat. I require information. It is information you have. If you offer it freely, we might move on.”