Jewel had seen the Kialli fight Meralonne before; had seen his delight and their recognition. But none of the Kialli had sheathed weapons and withdrawn unless forced to retreat; they had thrown themselves into the battle with everything they could bring to bear. Recognition was not enough to stay their hands. On either side.
It was not enough to stay Shianne’s.
But Darranatos could not bring his sword to bear a fourth time. His wings folded, as did his knees, as if the wings themselves were the only thing now keeping him aloft. He did not kneel, not precisely; there was nothing of that grace or deliberation in the motion. But graceful or no, he was brought to his knees before her; Jewel could see that shards of Shianne’s shield had lodged themselves in her arm, and knew, as she watched, that the arm itself was broken.
Adam knew it, too, but this time he did not struggle to reach her. No, he lifted a hand, as if in denial, as Shianne raised the sword she still held.
And this, Jewel thought, was the White Lady’s mercy: she brought that sword down without hesitation, sundering head from body as it passed cleanly through Darranatos’ neck.
The sword vanished; it had served the only purpose it had. The song, however, did not; she bent, she lifted the head from where it had rolled to a stop—eyes facing Shianne as if, even in death, she was the only thing worthy of regard on this field, beneath this sky.
She knelt at last, but even kneeling, continued to sing; as her shoulders curled inward, finally caught by gravity, her volume banked; she drew the song back, into herself, until Jewel could no longer hear it.
Only then did sound return to the field; only then did the elements continue their argument over the rightful ruler of the landscape; only then did the Arianni return, at last, to the combat that seemed to govern their life.
But Shianne did not. She did not stand, did not rise, did not lift her head; her arms, broken or not, cradled the head of the fallen Kialli lord until that head—like the body that no longer housed it—crumbled to ash and dust in her arms.
Then, only then, did she weep.
7th day of Lattan, 428 A.A.
Terafin Manse, Averalaan Aramarelas
Finch was surprised to see Meralonne and took no pains to conceal it. Teller, however, was not. She glanced at him; his color would have been terrible if not for the warmth lent it by the fire of the burning tree. She wondered again what he had seen on the day he had chosen to look into the Oracle’s crystal ball. He would not speak of it, and even were he to be convinced to do so, it would not be here.
Meralonne offered her a very correct bow; she returned a nod, as might be expected of a ruler of one of The Ten. The forest denizens had been certain that he would be beyond them, that he would be one of the enemies they would face in the coming days.
Haval and Jarven were neutral; that was the whole of the caution they displayed. It was enough.
But the forest denizens, if they had been trained to bear very human arms, were not so cautious; after their initial, incredulous stares, they began to flock to Meralonne, to surround him. They chattered in voices that sounded to Finch like forest leaves in a gentle breeze; she caught words that were names, but little else.
He reached out as they spoke, his fingers brushing a burning leaf on a low-lying branch. It singed his fingertips and he withdrew his hand. They marked it, just as Finch did.
Jester was carrying the golden fox, and set him down upon the exposed roots of that fiery tree; he was not of a mind to be set down, but accepted that Jester’s usefulness had come to a momentary end. It was to Finch he padded across the forest floor, and she thought, with surprise, that she missed the cats. If nothing else could be said about them, she could say this: they did not insist on being carried, and they did not bite her hard enough to draw blood.
“You are thinking loudly,” the fox said, when he was safely ensconced in her arms.
“Why is Meralonne here?”
“You must ask your Jester. When I think mortals have no surprises left to offer one such as I, they nonetheless do.”
As if she were speaking with Jarven, she said, “How is it that the elders have allowed Meralonne to return?”
“Ah, that.” He raised his nose, his eyes meeting Finch’s; they flashed a warning.
Jester, however, signed, Not me. She understood what it meant.
She then turned to Meralonne. “Are you, or are you not, here in the capacity of House Mage?”
A platinum brow rose.
“I speak as regent,” Finch continued, when he did not answer. “And the forest recognizes that position.” She could not fold her arms without dropping the fox, and forced her expression and tone to do the work instead.
He considered her for a long moment as the forest itself—save only the tree of fire—fell silent around them both. Even the fox gazed up at her with an arrested expression.
Jarven cleared his throat. Finch ignored him, which was never wise. But she wanted an answer, and she had, in as diplomatic a fashion as possible, made clear that an answer must be forthcoming. It was a test: of herself, of Meralonne, of the forest. And perhaps of Jarven, as well, although the results in that case were never fixed, never static.
“Then yes, ATerafin. While the forest is content to allow it, I will be House Mage.”
“Very well. We had questions about the heralds and the sleepers which we hope you will be able to answer.”
He inclined his head. “I will not, however, be responsible for what you choose to do with those answers, if indeed you have any choices remaining to you at all.” His hair blew in the windless clearing; his eyes shone.
And Finch, at a distance, heard singing.
It was resonant, clear, the words themselves distinct and yet private enough they were unintelligible. She turned, as the magi had turned, her gaze following forest into darkness of night sky; she felt a sudden chill, and moved, fox in arms, to stand beneath the boughs of the burning tree. There was no warmth to be found there.
“Can you hear it?” he asked softly, so softly. His eyes closed as he lifted his chin, tilting into the wind that touched nothing else. After a long, long pause, he bowed his head.
“I hear a song,” Finch replied, her voice as soft as his.
“The forest does, indeed, accept you.”
“Where is it coming from?”
“Beyond the borders of Fabril’s reach. But that song will be heard throughout the high wilderness, ere this eve gives way at last—to endless night, or dawn.” He turned to her then, faced her fully, his eyes no longer shining. “Hear you the horns? They howl now. Come. You have not walked the forests, but you will need them soon.” He held out one hand.
Jarven cleared his throat again.
This time, both the magi and the regent turned to face him. His expression was no longer neutral; it was grave, even haunted. He, too, had heard the singing, but what he made of it was not what Finch had made of it.
“You are young,” he told her, looking down at her from a variety of removes. “Not the child you were when we first met, but not like the man that I have become. I once thought your origins showed promise—and in that, I was right. But what grew from the streets of those holdings was not what grew from the streets of mine.
“This is not your battle, Regent.” He looked to Meralonne. “Leave her here, where she may plan. There is someplace that we now need to travel.”
Meralonne however shook his head. “It is oft said The Terafin is young and naive; that she trusts too readily, believes too easily. But that is the lie you tell yourselves. Here, the forest does not accept those lies; nor will it, while The Terafin lives. And yes,” he added softly, “she lives; she must live, for the forest is waiting.” And he nodded to Jarven, an imperial nod that might pass between men of power, but it was to Andrei that he turned.
“Namann.”
“Illaraph
aniel.” Andrei did not bow.
“This is the choice you have made, then? You would not be my chosen companion on this, of all nights—but I am reminded tonight that even those I might have chosen over all others could not, in the end, be fully trusted. It is not in my nature to trust you, but it is not in our nature to trust at all.”
“You have spent long among the mortals,” Andrei replied.
Meralonne laughed. “You say that to me?”
“Illaraphaniel—she is waiting.”
Finch was confused. Meralonne, however, was not. The fox bit her hand—gently enough to draw the attention he craved without drawing blood; he was not displeased with her, at the moment. He indicated wordlessly that he wished to be taken to Jarven, and she did his bidding willingly, if only to be relieved of her burden. She complained about the cats—and the cost of them—but at base, they were almost kin to her. The fox was not and would never be. Like Jarven, he could be gentle; like Jarven, he could be playful; like Jarven, he could be indulgent. But more than Jarven, he could be capricious, and all affection was superficial.
Jarven would not kill Finch over a trifle; his injured dignity did not demand it. He might, she thought, be willing to see her dead—but her death would complicate his life in ways he would find, at best, inconvenient. And it would break something in Lucille.
Jarven gathered the fox with respect but held him as Finch had held him.
“It is not yet time for us,” the fox told him. “Not yet, and perhaps not this eve. But come, let us follow where they lead; there is much to see.”
Jarven said nothing.
“Do not spend your life needlessly.”
Finch did not smile. Expression as grave as Jarven’s, she said, “It is good advice.”
“I am often entertained by good advice,” Jarven conceded. To Haval, he asked, “Will you remain?”
“I will keep my own counsel in this.”
“You are dour, as usual.”
“And you are frivolous. But we are two old men who are set in our ways; it is folly to expect change now.”
“You will seek the Kings.”
“Will I? It has been many, many years since I considered the Kings my master.”
“It was never mastery that was your concern; it was responsibility.”
“You are being almost rude.”
“It is, as you say, folly to expect change at this late date. Very well. I will, as advised, observe for the nonce.”
Haval nodded. “You have always had an interesting take on advice. I have almost missed it.”
Jarven laughed. He then walked away from the tree of fire. Finch watched him, concentrating on the dark shape of his back until she could see the exact point at which he faded from view.
Only when he was gone did Birgide Viranyi approach Haval. Her eyes were red; the pretense of normalcy was gone.
“Where is he?”
She closed those red eyes. Without opening them, she said, “He is gone to Moorelas’ statue. They are gathered there.”
“The god-born?”
“Yes. And the Kings.” She paused and then added, “Duvari is with them. He is . . . ill-pleased. He does not feel it is either safe or wise for the Kings to be there.”
“It is, no doubt, necessary,” Haval replied, his voice dry and almost unconcerned.
“Will Jarven support the Kings?”
“If it becomes necessary, I believe he will make that attempt. Tell me, do you feel that he will be capable?”
“I have not seen him fight.”
Haval nodded.
“Nor have I seen you do so.”
“I am Councillor, if you recall. Will you go?”
Birgide tensed, and Finch understood that this was the heart of her hesitation. She was Warden and sworn to the forest. And she was Astari and sworn to the Kings. “If that is what you advise, I will.”
Haval raised a brow, his expression as dire as the one he reserved for the hapless visitors who managed, regardless of effort and care, to step on his beads; since they were strewn all over the floor, Finch had never thought this reasonable.
“In theory, Warden, you have the freedom of the forest, and the forest extends across most of the hundred holdings. There is no reason that you cannot fulfill your duties while standing in the Common or any of the hundred, save only a handful. And I do not trust Jarven.”
“No?”
“Ah, his intent at the moment does not work against ours, but he is in the most capricious of his moods.”
“You do not approve.”
“My approval, or disapproval, is irrelevant. At the moment, he needs to seek approval from only one living creature—and he has carried that creature with him.”
“The elders do not yet find it trivial to walk through the streets of the actual city.”
“No; I believe that is why the fox chose to accompany Jarven; Jarven does not suffer from any such restriction.”
“Councillor,” Meralonne said quietly.
“Apologies, APhaniel. Allow me to finish here.” To Birgide he said, “Yes, that would be my advice. It is not an act of mercy; it is not an act of generosity. Understand that. I do not know what you will face, but there are demons skirting the forest’s edge, even now.”
“It is not the demons that you must fear,” Meralonne added, voice soft.
“You are incorrect, APhaniel. It is not the demons you must fear.”
Birgide lowered her chin as she faced Haval; she then lifted her left hand and placed it against her heart; a brief flutter of very deliberate motion.
Haval did not repeat it. He lifted his hand to shoo her away. And she went. “I am torn,” he told Finch, “between a desire to have an end to these infernal horns, and a certainty that an ending spells doom for us all. I am not a young man, and the ringing in my ears causes my head to ache.”
She smiled; she couldn’t help it. In this dark clothing, with no visible sign of the apron he habitually wore when crafting, he had resembled Duvari; now, he was Haval Arwood again.
“You wish to take Finch with you when you leave for the city.”
Meralonne nodded.
“And you will take Andrei as well. Andrei?” The Araven servant nodded.
Haval studied Finch in silence, his hands behind his back, his eyes half-hooded with narrow appraisal. “We cannot afford to lose you,” he finally said. “Jester, you go instead.”
* * *
• • •
Jester was not a happy man.
While he agreed with Haval in one particular—they could not afford to lose Finch—the implication that they could afford to lose Jester rankled. It rankled almost as much as the company he was now forced to keep: Andrei of Araven, and Meralonne APhaniel. It was not that he disliked the Araven servant; he disliked his obvious lack of anything remotely resembling a sense of humor. Meralonne was a discomfort for entirely practical reasons; if everything any of the forest denizens had said was accurate, he could become their worst nightmare without warning. What Jester did not understand was why the forest simply accepted this.
The only thing needed to make the day worse arrived before they had even found their way out of the forest.
“Where are you going?” The needling voice of bored cat filled the air.
Jester cursed, which caused Andrei to raise a brow. Silver gleamed to Jester’s left, gold to his right. He could not see the trees of diamond, but wasn’t looking. What he wanted, now, was the manicured grounds of the Terafin manse. And an absence of obnoxious cat.
“Aren’t you supposed to be at home?”
“I’m bored. Nothing is happening. Where are you going?”
“We’re going to the edge of the Common.”
“Where?”
Jester had never tried to strangle the cats; he never imagined that
he would get the better of the attempt. “If you pay attention, you’ll probably be able to figure it out.”
Night hissed. Hissed, and then yowled in outrage.
Two cats.
“Go away,” the black cat shouted at the white one.
“No, you go.”
Andrei looked almost as sour as Jester felt. “Eldest,” he said, careful not to choose a particular one, “we would like to arrive in the city without attracting every danger that now inhabits the wilderness. You will wake them all, and we cannot afford that.”
“I was here first.”
“Sssso?” Snow avoided Night’s claws. “Where are you going?” He came to land more or less beside Jester, but only because Jester was fast enough to move his foot out of harm’s way.
“To the statue of Moorelas,” Jester replied.
“Are not.”
Jester surrendered. “Where are we going, then?”
Snow flicked Jester’s chest with his wing. “The wrong way. You could try flying.”
Fine. “We’re trying to find our way out of the forest.”
“Are not.”
“We think we’re trying to find our way out of the forest.”
Snow hissed laughter. Above, so did Night.
Jester turned to glance at his two companions; Andrei’s face was entirely expressionless. Meralonne appeared to be amused. Condescendingly amused.
“If we could avoid the game of stupid mortals,” Jester began.
“They are not wrong,” Meralonne said, at almost the same time. “But, ATerafin, you are not attempting to seek an exit now. The time has come where exits will be far harder for you to find.”
“I’ve never had trouble before.”
“You’ve never faced this night before. The forest encompasses the Common, and much of the hundred. It is in the Common that the land is strongest, that its power is closest to the surface. The Ellariannatte have always grown there, and the leaves have always bloomed. They are rooted in soil that is ancient and sleeping, but they are rooted, as well, in soil that mortals might dig or till. Think you that their presence was mere coincidence? There is a reason that the Sleepers lie here.
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