“Tell him that I will return to the manse with Meralonne APhaniel.” He glanced at the magi, who still seemed a creature of silver and light, and said, “Unless you’d condescend to ride in the Terafin carriage?”
One brow rose in an echo of Meralonne’s familiar arrogance. It was almost comforting. It was also a very distinct, if wordless, answer.
“I will not harm them,” Meralonne said.
When Jester glanced at him, the magi added, “I will not harm my brothers. But they do not see what I see, in this long, long game. In the end, my resistance will not be enough. My compliance with the White Lady’s commands were likewise insufficient; had it been enough, we would not have been trapped and lessened. It is coming, ATerafin. It is coming.” As he spoke, he began to walk, not to the carriage yards but the public front of the Order of Knowledge.
Jester felt his stomach sink. He could accept magic—anyone who lived in the city did. It fueled streetlamps, protected buildings, dampened fires. But he did not consider those daily contrivances to be magic. They were like the cobbled streets; they simply were.
He felt the wind touch his face as he stepped into the empty drive, and he knew, just before he was swept off his feet, that Meralonne APhaniel no longer rode in carriages. He no longer moved through the city’s many streets; they were beneath him, beneath his notice.
And he thought, as the streets became smaller and smaller beneath feet that no longer touched them, that that was for the best. He did not think that the magi would notice—or care to notice—just how much damage the wind he now summoned might do.
As they crossed the Isle—a remarkably short journey as the windswept bird flew—he did see not the Terafin manse, but the forest. The buildings that comprised the manse and its closest neighbors were no longer visible beneath the towering boughs of Ellariannatte. Those trees were taller than the trees that had always been the distinguishing feature of the more distant Common.
“This,” Meralonne said, his words blown toward Jester by the cool air, “will be the test, ATerafin.”
“If the forest rejects you, what will happen to me?” Jester’s question was almost casual in sound. It was certainly not casual in feeling.
The magi’s smile was sharp but genuine. “You will not land in the forest. I will ask the wind to set you down a safe distance away—but you will be deposited in the dim and dismal streets of your mortal city.”
* * *
• • •
Jester did not believe that he was in no danger. He understood that the ocean had no personal desire to drown men whose ships capsized in storms; it had no intent. The air, if Jay was correct, did—but it was a capricious intent. While Meralonne commanded it, Jester was safe. He didn’t feel safe; he merely understood that his fears, his abilities, his own intentions, were entirely irrelevant. Either he would fall, or he wouldn’t. Begging for his life, exposing the uneasiness he refused to call fear, would bring him closer to death, not farther from it.
He was therefore determined to enjoy what he hoped would be a singular experience. He gave over dignity almost instantly, spreading his arms as if he were a gliding bird. Not a flapping one. He drew the line at that.
But the Ellariannatte drew closer, and closer again.
As Meralonne hovered just at the outer edge of what was far too large to be considered a grove, the trees moved. As if branches were limbs—or worse, rigid tentacles—they reached up to envelop both the magi and Jester, rushing in as if to trap them in a wooden, pliant cage.
Jester drew breath and exhaled it, unadorned by words. But he did look at Meralonne and was surprised into a different type of silence. The magi’s eyes were no longer glittering, although his hair was a perfect spill of white, like living snow. His armor did not shift or change, but he drew no sword; he did not attempt to fight the will of the forest itself.
He glanced at Jester, his lips slightly thinned. “My apologies, ATerafin. The wild air informs me that it does not have permission to cross this boundary. I had thought—”
“What did you think?” Jester reached out and wrapped his arms around the thickest of the branches. Dignity be damned. He clung for his life.
“I had thought that were I to be acceptable still, the wind might carry us into the forest heart.”
“Is this how you normally arrive?”
“Ah, no. What I summon, I summon within The Terafin’s lands. The wind, however, will not cross over this boundary; I must call it again should I wish to fly. I must call it where the call can be witnessed, be heard, be examined. And it cannot be examined in that fashion from without.”
It was a long, long way to fall.
Jester cursed.
Meralonne APhaniel laughed. The laugh was loud and far warmer than any other sound the mage had made in Jester’s presence today, which really didn’t make up for the sudden absence of buoyancy. But it was something, he thought. Whatever alchemical sorcery Meralonne expected would transform him, it was not done with its work, not yet.
* * *
• • •
Being sent to the ground hand over fist by giant trees left splinters and leaves in Jester’s hair; it scraped skin that was pale enough to be unforgiving to blemishes. He held his breath more often than he cursed, and lost sight entirely of Meralonne, but did not close his eyes. The imperative to survive was strong enough that he watched, transferring his grip from branch to branch just as he himself was unceremoniously handled.
His clothing was much the worse for wear by the time his feet found purchase on ground he swore silently he would never leave again. And on that note, he turned to glare at Meralonne APhaniel. The mage, much like Jester himself, had been handed to ground by the trees that he would never quite see the same way again.
“Did you even try to call the wind?” Jester demanded.
“I did not see the point,” the mage replied; he still looked enormously amused. “And there is, even for the immortal, some hint of the nostalgic in this particular enterprise. It has been long—so long—since the trees have been awake enough to condescend to play.”
Given the tears in Jester’s jacket, play did not strike him as the appropriate word; he was bruised, and no doubt would have bruises on the bruises by morning. He straightened out what remained of his clothing, thinking about Finch’s resigned but grim certainty that Iain ATerafin would bring the entire treasury down on their heads if they incurred any more unnecessary expenses. Then he looked around.
“Well, we are certainly in The Terafin’s forest,” he told the mage. “Which, I gather, means you are either more powerful than the forest—” the ground rumbled, “or you are still considered at least something of an ally to the forest’s Lord.”
“It is not a mistake I would make, were I Lord of these lands.”
“No, of course not. Were you Lord of these lands, it would be Winter and the trees would be asleep.”
Meralonne’s expression chilled.
Jester’s survival instincts, however, did not step in to shut his mouth. “Do you possibly have any idea where we actually are?”
“Do you not?”
“It might have escaped your notice, but I am a normal mortal. I am not talent-born, and I avoid egregious displays of magic because I’m in control of none of them.”
A pale brow rose, but the smile lingered. “I am surprised,” he said softly. “And it is seldom that I am surprised. Yes, ATerafin. I believe I know where we are.”
“Are we near the tree of fire?”
“Ah, no. But we are very near a significant tree. Be grateful,” he added softly. “That fall would not injure me. It would, however—”
“Yes, I know. It wouldn’t have done me any good at all.”
“The Terafin values you highly; the forest understands this. It is not a trivial act for the forest to catch you thus, not even here. You have seen the trees move an
d speak—they are awake—and perhaps you believe that what occurred just now is some part of that. You would be wrong. Here, in this space, there is one central presence, and I believe he is now waiting for us.”
“Us?” Jester asked. He was dubious.
Meralonne’s shrug was familiar. “I believe you might find your way to the tree of fire. Why do you seek it?”
“The impromptu council of war is being held there.”
“Ah. I am called. If you will accompany me, I will speak to your council in Sigurne’s stead after I am done here.”
* * *
• • •
Jester did not wander often in the forest. When he entered it, he searched for one of two people: Birgide or Haval. The tree of fire figured prominently in the success of that search, although Jester could not for the life of him understand why Birgide found any comfort in its existence.
This time, however, he followed Meralonne, and Meralonne’s path did not lead to the burning orange yellow of that tree; it led into a dusk that was heading toward twilight. Although the trees that had broken their fall had been Ellariannatte, Jester could not tell from the trunks and the bark of the trees they now passed whether or not these trees were those ones. He had never developed Jay’s love for the trees, and he had no particular sentimental attachment to them.
In his view, the trees of silver, gold, and diamond were of more interest, but even he knew better than to pilfer a few leaves for his own personal use. Not yet, at any rate.
And maybe not ever. If Meralonne was right—no, if Haval and Jarven were right—gold and silver might have far less value than food.
He did not ask the magi if he knew where he was going; he was content, for the moment, to be led. But the forest here seemed silent in comparison to the forest with which he was only passingly familiar, and he wondered as he walked just how far the forest stretched. He assumed these lands were still Jay’s; there was no winter here.
But if there had been a spring or summer, it was hard to tell; the branches of these ancient trees were too high off the ground, and the simple illumination of sunlight seemed all but absent.
To his surprise, Meralonne chose to break their silence. “What do you desire from The Terafin?”
Jester hardly knew how to answer. The flippant answer he usually offered to this kind of intrusive question came to his lips but died before leaving them. He considered the question seriously instead.
In the absence of an immediate response, Meralonne glanced back at him. “You feel this is irrelevant.”
Jester shook his head. “I’m afraid of the opposite.”
“Oh?”
“It’s relevant, but it’s not a question I ask myself.”
“You understand what she is?”
“Jay.”
“That is only barely a name; in Weston it is a single letter. It describes none of her power, none of her potential.”
He was wrong. “What do you want from her?” Jester asked, to buy himself time. But he regretted the words he’d let escape; he already knew the answer. Meralonne wanted what Shianne wanted. He wanted what Celleriant wanted. He wanted, in the end, what Jay needed: to find the Winter Queen and return Summer to these lands. Or rather, to the lands that bordered them.
Meralonne raised a brow but did not condescend to answer, and Jester knew he deserved this.
“I want her to be herself,” Jester finally said. “Power changes people. It changes what they do. It changes what they want. It changes the battles they fight, and the way they fight them.”
“You are not fond of the powerful.”
“Not particularly, no. I’ve never been one of them.” He hesitated, stumbled over a tree root, cursed almost genially, and righted himself. “I want what she wants. I want to be able to be what she wants me to be.”
“And that is?”
Jester shrugged. This question, he had asked himself, usually in the dark of night when he wasn’t quite drunk enough. He understood her attachment to Teller. He understood her attachment to Finch. He was attached to both of them himself. He understood what she valued in Arann, what she had valued in Carver—and even thinking the name, his entire body tightened, as if at an expected and anticipated blow. He even understood why Angel. If Arann was Chosen, Angel was hers. Had always been hers, from the first day she’d brought him home. He understood the sweetness she saw in Adam’s youth, although he thought her overly sentimental.
He did not understand what she saw in him.
She had found Teller. Had found Finch. Had found Arann and Angel.
She had stumbled over Jester, locked in a room that still gave him nightmares half a lifetime later. No special insight, no special talent, had led her to Jester; she’d practically tripped over him. It had been an exceptionally lucky coincidence for Jester.
He had never entirely understood how it had been of any value to her.
He was not, and would never be, large. He couldn’t fight—as Arann, Duster, and Carver could. His red hair and pale skin made him stand out in a crowd, no matter how costly visibility was, and although he had learned to disguise the color of his hair and darken his skin, that was too costly for the struggling den to be a permanent solution. He was not, therefore, the best of her thieves when thievery had been required.
He was not a peacemaker. He did not care to be close to people, or to have them too close to him. He disdained the patriciate. No, it was worse than that.
Although he had been unwanted, although her talent-born gift had not marked him as essential, as necessary, she had saved him. She had given him a home. She had taken him to Terafin in her desperate wake, sacrificing Duster to do so.
She had never questioned whether or not he belonged. Jester had. But he had never done it out loud. If he was to lose home and safety—as he had done before—it wasn’t going to be because he’d argued for it. Or mentioned it.
“ATerafin?”
“I don’t know. I do not know what she wants or expects me to be.” There was no wind, no breeze, nothing to ruffle the leaves above them, nothing to add sound to their gloomy trek. “I suppose you always knew?”
Meralonne did not pretend to misunderstand him. “Yes, but not in the manner you think. It was not necessary to be told. Nor was it necessary to receive praise. We are the White Lady’s.”
“But . . .” He hesitated. His curiosity had been his one besetting sin, even when curiosity was far less than wise. “They didn’t do what she wanted.”
“We are not the White Lady; we merely belong to her. She is what we yearn for. Tell me, Jester—if you were to be sundered from your chosen kin, would you not desire to return to them?”
“Depends.”
“On?”
“Was I sundered because I walked away? Was I sundered because they did? Am I hostage? Am I—”
Meralonne lifted a hand. “For us, it does not depend. She is the White Lady. Where she stands on the field of battle, be her enemy the god we do not name, it is her that we see, it is her that we yearn for.”
“Even your dead?”
“Even our dead.”
“Then why?”
“I told your Lord why; did she not speak of it?”
Jester kicked a tree root. He didn’t expect to be told everything of relevance. But once—once, he had been. What the den knew, he knew. He exhaled. Had he ever expressed a desire to know? No. He had kept everyone, even Finch, at as much of a distance as he could. They were his chosen kin.
“She probably thought it irrelevant.”
Meralonne stiffened. Jester knew that he was playing with a life—his own—but felt a brief, visceral joy. It was petty, yes. But didn’t petty ultimately describe him? And maybe this conversation would be over.
“Or perhaps she thought you were not worthy enough to hear it.”
Jester shrugged. Pettiness
was a habit; once started, it was hard to stop. And, really, what did it matter? Knowing why changed none of the facts. They had betrayed the command of the White Lady they professed to venerate. And instead of dying for it, they’d been left beneath the streets of Jester’s city, where their waking would kill thousands. Tens of thousands.
“Probably.”
Silence again. It was shorter than Jester’s had been. “We strove to be worthy of her. We strove to be the best reflection of her strengths. We killed for her. We would have died for her.”
Jester wondered why Meralonne was telling him this.
“In some lesser fashion,” his tone implied that he believed it was much lesser, “the Terafin regent has done the same. The right-kin. The one with the white hair.”
“It’s blonde.”
“It is white.”
Jester snorted. “And you want to know what I’ve done to prove myself?”
“I am not mortal. I will never be mortal. Perhaps you accomplish this in a fashion I cannot perceive. But I have spent centuries among your kind, and I confess that when I pause to look, I cannot discern it.”
“If I had ever had to prove myself worthy of her—of any of them—I’d’ve been dead on the first day we met. And nothing’s changed since then.” The words that left his mouth were flippant in meaning, but he could not drive them out in a similar tone.
Why am I even talking about this?
As if Meralonne could hear the thought, he inclined his chin. “My apologies, ATerafin. I was curious.”
“I thought you didn’t care about mortals.”
“In the general case? No. There is no point. But your Terafin is a mortal. And she is tasked with something that not even the strongest, the greatest, of my kin could achieve. I am forced to adopt some elements of concern. Tell me, do you think she will succeed?”
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