“And if I do not?” There was no warmth in the question, no amusement; there was a trace of his sharpest edge. It cut her in ways that the small, sharp teeth of the fox had not.
She chose her words with care, aware that at this moment it was absolutely necessary. “This matter involves the forest. It involves The Terafin’s hidden lands.”
He understood the quiet threat. She thought that her den-kin did not. But Jarven’s expression made clear to her that he was not yet certain that Finch herself was not bluffing. She understood the value of a bluff. She understood the value of a lie. They were tools that she used very seldom because she was not good at either.
He should have known that. And perhaps he did. Or perhaps this was just his way of demanding a concession when the negotiations had demanded something that he could see no easy way of denying.
“So it does,” he replied, after a pause. Giving her the space and the time to concede, to retreat.
“The forest,” she said, because she could not retreat, “is The Terafin’s. What I could not command from you, I might command of the forest itself.” She spoke with a certainty she did not feel.
And the fox said, “He knows this to be true.” Unlike Jarven’s, his voice was warm, almost playful. He was amused.
Jarven’s frown was meant for the fox; he had never enjoyed interruption on those rare occasions when he was entirely—and obviously—focused on his work.
“What this surprising child is saying,” the fox began.
“If she is surprising, it has taken some work and nurture to create her, Eldest,” Jarven interrupted. The air grew chillier. Jarven bowed instantly—a full bow, a full obeisance, itself almost shocking to Finch given the charged atmosphere. “The lessons now are far fewer, the time between them greater. But the consequences are, therefore, more dire, and the choices made, more complex.
“She has been protected and cozened by those she considers kin—but in Jewel’s absence, it is Finch who must shoulder the burdens of commander. Would you then protect her from even the slight sting of making those commands explicit?”
“Me? Of course not,” the fox replied. “I do not foster the young and foolish. Nor do I feel it necessary to protect them.”
Jarven nodded, as if the point had been conceded, but he was wary.
And right to be. “But she is not my foster. You are. And Jewel is the heart of this land.”
“She was not always so.”
“No.”
“And you have no desire to be free?”
The fox chuckled. “It was Winter in these lands. Cold and endless. What freedom was there in ice? The roots of the forest did not grow or move; the leaves did not bud and blossom; the denizens of the land did not speak or sing or quarrel. Only the wily scavengers moved here, shadows of life. She woke the forest. While she is Lord, be the Winter eternal, the forest will remain awake.”
“But Summer is coming.”
“Ah. You misunderstand. It is our hope that Summer will at last grace the lands, and in Summer one chafes at rulership. But it is not Summer, Jarven. Tell me, do you consider all necessity restricting?”
Jarven did not consider the question rhetorical. He considered it with care. “If I accept the necessity, I do not resent it.”
“Very well. You must breathe. Yes, even you, although lesser restrictions exist for you now. You must eat. And you must sleep.”
Jarven nodded.
“These things are not required of us, except perhaps sleep—and our understanding of sleep is in no way similar to yours; were we not as we are, we might think of an entirely different word to convey the meaning under which we exist. However, Finch is getting impatient.”
She did not deny this, although it was not entirely true. The fox was not Jarven. What Jarven would forgive, the fox might not. And, Finch thought, for the Terafin merchant—if that was what he remained—no matter the outcome of this discussion, a wall had been built, a gauntlet thrown. Her arms tightened.
The fox sneezed. He was so very like Jarven in many ways. But Jarven could not be held, could not be cradled, and could not enclose her in a golden cage. She understood that, no matter how soft, how warm, and how slight this might seem, it was a cage.
“It is not, foolish child,” the fox said, as if she had somehow injured his dignity. “It is armor.”
Jarven chuckled then. The edge in his expression was blunted almost instantly by the fox’s explanation.
“I would let you play,” the fox told his liege, “but Finch is the heart of the forest. Finch, Teller, that boy with fire for hair. If the entire city were to fall to demons and darkness, to gods and the firstborn, our Lord might be saved if these people survive. You care for your own survival—but only when you earn it. You are willing to risk death, to stare it in the face while you learn the rules and the meaning behind the encounter; you consider survival to be your responsibility and your reward.
“You therefore consider lack of survival to be a reward of its own—for lack of effort, for lack of intelligence, for lack of struggle. Your heart has always beat in time with the wilderness.
“But Jewel’s has not. Therefore, you will accept it when I say—I who could kill you now without even blinking—that Finch may command me. What she commands of me, I will give. And if she commands me to surrender your services, I will do exactly that.”
“It would be better for Finch were she to state that openly.”
“Why?”
“Because had she, she would be signaling clearly that she understands—and accepts—what might follow from it.”
“Ah. You will forgive me if I do not share this view. To me, she would be stating the obvious, and the obvious is often boring.”
“A sword is a mortal weapon.”
“Not merely mortal, but I shall concede the theoretical point.”
“Should a sword hang upon a wall, it is considered decoration. It is there, it is clearly a weapon, it has an owner. But it does not have a wielder. A sword upon the wall is barely even a topic for idle conversation. If a mortal—ah, no, let me be specific. If Finch wishes to point to the sword on the wall, that signifies little. It remains on the wall. She might allude to it; it is the overture to threat. But it has no teeth.
“Should she, however, pull that sword from the wall and wield it, it becomes a weapon. A declaration.”
“And you wish her to declare herself your opponent?”
“No, Eldest. I wish her to understand that she has clambered up a ladder and removed the sword from the wall. It remains in its scabbard. She has failed, through caution or justifiable fear, to draw it. But she will have to draw it if it is to have weight and meaning. And I wish to know how committed she is. She will require that knowledge as well.”
The fox regarded Jarven as steadily, as intensely, as Jarven now regarded the fox. It was the first time that Finch had wondered who Jarven’s mentors were—she had assumed, until this moment, that he had wanted, had needed, none. He was not a man given to need.
He was not a man given to actual weakness, although feigning weakness could amuse him, at the expense of those who were inclined to believe the lie.
“Teach her, if you must,” the fox finally said, as if he were condescending to make a concession where none was earned or deserved. “But do so after Jewel’s reign is secured. I myself might find it interesting to put Finch through her paces; she seems entirely predictable, but there is something about her . . .”
Finch cleared her throat, and both of them—fox and Jarven—looked to her, as if expecting the unexpected. She disagreed with both of them; she was not unpredictable. And even were she, she had no compunction at this moment about disappointing their capricious expectations.
“Although he is correct,” the fox said. “You are not terribly playful.”
“This is not the time for play.”
“My dear,” Jarven said, his tone reverting to the one with which she was most familiar, “there is always time for play. Make even the most dire of situations a game, as I do, and the outcome will be less crushing.”
“If I survive.”
His smile was sharp, unlike his tone. “Even so.”
The fox cleared his throat. If he was unlike the cats—and he was—he shared one thing in common with them; he disliked being ignored or forgotten. He tickled the underside of Finch’s chin with long, shining whiskers that seemed to move almost independently, which was more disturbing than Finch would have liked. But he spoke to Jarven. “When you fought the herald, you did not destroy him.”
Silence.
* * *
• • •
Finch was not the first person to speak. None of the mortals were. Jarven’s eyes narrowed, his lips compressed; there was a flash of genuine annoyance in his expression, although it was hooded almost instantly. Finch wondered if anyone else had noticed, then remembered almost ruefully that Haval was Councillor, some nebulous part of the forest. Even had he not been, he would have seen, have understood, and even accepted. Not for Haval uncertainty in his own observations.
He did not move, did not shift position; instead, he became utterly and completely still. In his dark clothing, with the lack of encumbering apron, he looked like a shadow.
“You found another herald.”
“Clearly.”
“And your injuries?”
“Irrelevant.”
Haval nodded as if he agreed. “You did not destroy him. Did you retreat?”
“No. It was not necessary.”
“Did he?”
Jarven’s smile was sharp, almost predatory. “Yes.”
“You believe that to be a feint?”
“The risk was high.”
“His skills?”
“Weapon. Sword, shield. He had some rudimentary magical protections, but I believe those to be innate.” He glanced at Finch, who merely listened. When Jarven’s gaze rested on hers for long enough, she spoke.
“I am content to let Haval ask the questions. The information comes to me regardless.”
“And you trust that he will ask the right questions?”
“I trust that he will ask the questions he considers relevant—but, Jarven, you only answer questions you feel are relevant. No, that isn’t exact. Haval understands you in a way that I don’t. And you understand Haval in a way that I don’t. You don’t say things that don’t need to be said. Nor does he.”
“You are content to allow his understanding—and mine—to guide you?”
“No. But Haval will answer questions without evasion when the situation is dire.”
“And I will not.”
“No situation is dire enough to you.”
He laughed, then. There was actual warmth in his expression. Finch, however, could not respond in kind.
“The shield and the sword were blue,” Jarven continued.
“Yes. I believe that to be the natural weaponry of the Wild Hunt. But it is not the only weaponry at their disposal.”
“Ah.”
“Did the herald fly?”
“No.”
“And he did not attempt to wake earth?”
“He could not,” the fox said, before Jarven could answer. “Not easily. When faced with mortals, perhaps. The wind and fire are quick to wake. The earth is not.”
Finch wanted to correct him; Jarven was mortal. But the words would not leave her mouth. And Jarven knew. Of course he knew.
“The White Lady could speak to all elements with ease before the seasons came. She might bespeak the earth now—but seldom. It is costly. I do not believe the heralds will make that attempt.”
“Fire and air.”
“Indeed. However, in these lands, that will not aid them. Jewel has forbidden the elements freedom here without her express permission. If they come at all, it will be because they have been called by one of the firstborn princes.”
It was Teller who said, “The Sleepers were all firstborn princes.”
“Yes. You understand. They had the power to kill the gods,” the fox continued. “And there is a god who now walks this plane.”
“They will not negotiate with us,” Finch said. Her voice was flat.
“They will not negotiate with you,” the fox countered.
“Eldest.”
The fox turned in the direction of the voice.
“The great tree says they will not negotiate with any of us while these lands remain in the hands of a mortal. They did not venture often into these lands.”
“They would speak with me.” There was no doubt in the fox’s voice.
The speaker, a bark-skinned man of over six feet in height, who nonetheless resembled a rooted tree, nodded. “Yes, Eldest.” He was carrying a spear; its haft was wooden. In the firelight, the pointed tip reflected nothing.
“The second herald?” the fox then asked.
Jarven nodded briefly in the creature’s direction. “I did not choose to close directly.”
“And?”
“I had some success in leading him astray.”
“You were not lost yourself?” Haval asked.
“I found it rather more difficult to return than expected, but not impossible. The wilderness beyond our borders lies in winter; it is difficult to leave only the hint of tracks, the hint of a trail.”
“But not difficult to leave none.” It was not a question. Finch waited.
“As you surmise.”
“Did you encounter the third and fourth?”
“No. I encountered a third, but the fourth does not seem to have traveled toward our lands.”
“He would not be required to travel through the wilderness,” Teller said, voice soft. That softness, marked with diffidence and respect, nonetheless served to catch the forbidding attention of the powerful. And it was attention, Finch thought, that Teller did not want.
They waited.
“If there is a fourth herald, it is not for the Sleepers that he comes,” Teller continued, his voice steady, if quiet. Jester signed, but Teller shook his head slightly before he continued. “I do not understand why the heralds exist, nor can I claim to understand their purpose. But Sigurne herself came to my office; she would discuss the matter only there.
“The three heralds are to wake—and serve—the princes into whose service they have been commanded. But there were four princes, and therefore four heralds. Three of the princes rode with Moorelas, and in the end, three of the princes were condemned to sleep. Sigurne surmises that the heralds were also, in some fashion, sleeping—she cannot be certain. She said that the explanations given were scant, and they did not make mortal sense.”
“I would like to speak with the guildmaster,” Haval said quietly.
Teller nodded, as if he’d expected no less. Haval seldom treated either Teller or Finch with the same harshness he seemed to reserve for Jay.
Jester grimaced. He lifted hands and signed, I’ll go. To Haval.
“The fourth Herald,” Teller continued, “did not serve one of the condemned. He served . . .” He exhaled. “He served Meralonne APhaniel, before his fall.”
* * *
• • •
Jester entered the Order of Knowledge wearing a seal that acknowledged him as part of the Terafin House Council. It was not entirely inaccurate, in that he had not only permission but the responsibility of attending Council meetings when Finch was present. He seldom made those meetings, and Finch overlooked his absence for the most part; she considered his presence to cause more acrimony.
The ring, however, was useful. Jester understood that speed was of the essence; he had commandeered a messenger carriage, had asked the driver to get him to the Order’s front steps yesterda
y, if possible, and had leaped out of the carriage with alarming speed before the footman had had a chance to lower the stairs to allow for an exit consonant with the dignity of a House Council adjutant.
He was met as he entered the hall, its stately but opulent interior the public face of the Order. Jester, however, had seen enough of the magi to understand that there was a good reason why most of the halls did not have a public face; the mage-born were fractious, disorganized, and compulsive—on a good day.
This was, perhaps, not a good day.
He held out his hand, allowing the ring to be seen and very discreetly inspected. He was then ushered into a room that was meant for the use of the rich and the powerful while they waited. There was a cabinet with requisite amounts of alcohol, and a servant who appeared to exist solely for the purpose of dispensing it.
Jester did not sit. The chairs were too comfortable, and he could not afford to be comfortable here. Or possibly ever again. He did jump and pivot when the room itself shook, as if the whole of the floor had been struck by an angry god.
The servant, however, did not seem to be troubled by this. He offered Jester a deep bow. “Please accept the apologies of the Order for any discomfort the practices of its members may cause.” As if something that felt almost like an earthquake was an everyday occurrence. Given his utter lack of panic—given, in fact, his pinched look of tired resignation—Jester suddenly believed that they were.
They had not been, once.
He accepted the drink he was offered but husbanded the glass rather than knocking it back. He was here as an official of Terafin and while allowances for inebriated behavior were made, they were made in larger social situations, not private meetings.
Jay had never navigated larger parties well; Jester could. He understood her disdain, but did not understand her clumsy lack of competence. She was stiff; she had the substance to be a power—she was The Terafin, and her rule was undisputed, inasmuch as the rule of the powerful could ever be undisputed. But she lacked the grace, the elegance, the certainty, that having power should have conveyed.
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