“The Common, Avantari, and Terafin are bound to the will of The Terafin and to the inhabitants of her land; they are waking, now. It is far faster and far safer for you to travel through the forest, not out of it.”
“Do you see any convenient paths? Any signs?”
“Sarcasm is unnecessary,” Andrei said. “Illaraphaniel is correct. But I believe that you will find the way regardless; had I not, I would have spoken.”
“The eldest are correct, however,” Meralonne said.
Jester blanched as the wind came at his call.
“It would, no doubt, be less complicated to fly.”
“There’s nothing to catch us if we fall!”
“We are no longer leaving the forest; there is nothing to silence the wind. If, however, you are concerned, you might ride one of The Terafin’s cats.”
The cacophony of outrage that erupted was predictable, annoying, and—simultaneously—oddly comforting.
* * *
• • •
Night and Snow argued about who should take Jester. Or, rather, who should be stuck with him. They didn’t appear to notice the wind that swept across the forest floor, inserting itself between Jester’s feet and the ground. When they did, they reversed the course of their complaints instantly, but arguing with the wind was not as simple as arguing with each other—or at least that’s what Jester hoped.
Andrei, however, did not take to the air.
Jester glanced at the magi, raising a brow in question; the magi glanced at Andrei before replying. “The wind will not willingly carry him. It will carry him if that is my command—but that would be costly, and it is not a battle I choose to fight this eve. Unencumbered by you, Andrei will find his way to Moorelas’ Sanctum.”
“It is true, ATerafin,” the Araven servant said. “You need have no fear for me; I am likely to arrive before you do. And,” he added, glaring at the cats, “with far more subtlety.”
Jester really did not enjoy flying. “Could you put me down? I’d rather walk there with Andrei.”
“He will not walk as you would walk if he wishes speed,” Meralonne replied, “and the forest heart would be alarmed. What he chooses to do on his own behalf, the elders will accept.”
* * *
• • •
“What about Andrei ruffles so many feathers?” In the distance, Jester could see trees. And more trees. He could not, even at this height, see ocean. He couldn’t see the spires of Avantari either, which was more disturbing. Meralonne had said that Jay’s forest extended to the palace of the Twin Kings.
“He does not, as you so quaintly put it, ruffle mine.”
“Which is why I feel it’s safe to ask you.”
A platinum brow rose.
Jester shook his head. Talking was easier than watching the landscape beneath his feet; there was nothing beneath those feet—nothing solid—to impede the view. It was a view he did not like.
“He is ugly,” Night said.
“He is stupid,” Snow added.
“You think we’re all ugly and stupid,” Jester countered.
“He is very ugly.”
Meralonne glanced at Night without comment. Jester, however, frowned.
“Is it the wind?”
The brow rose again. “You are observant, for a lazy man.”
“The more I observe, the faster I can get out of the way of real work.”
“Given your current circumstance, I believe you need to move faster.”
Jester shrugged. “It’s Haval. The man’s a demon.”
Meralonne laughed. “An unfortunate—and entirely inaccurate—choice of words. He is Councillor, while The Terafin lives. He is not a man who relies on the regard of others, and he misses nothing he sees. I have often wondered what he was like in his youth.”
“Not like you in yours.”
“No. Come. They are already gathered.”
* * *
• • •
The wind was not particularly gentle, and when Jester was finally set down on the edge of the seawall, he was a rumpled mess. Given the prior state of his clothing, it could be forgiven. He wore his House ring, not that that would buy him any mercy or consideration from Duvari. And Duvari was present, as were the kings.
They had once gathered here, half of Jester’s lifetime ago, before he had become ATerafin. That had been the beginning of his life in Terafin; it had been the start of food, warmth, clothing that had been designed and constructed out of matching fabric, in his size.
But that had not been the first time the den had been in the place beneath the sanctum. In the streets of a fallen, buried city, they had scavenged through the detritus of the dead and the forgotten, slowly bringing historical artifacts—Rath’s words—to light, where they could be furtively sold. This, too, he remembered.
He had never felt a desire to return to it. That hidden city had devoured his chosen kin: Fisher, Lefty, Lander. Although their findings had kept a roof over their head, food in their bellies, the cost, in the end, had been too high. They would have found a different way to survive all but the harshest winter had they understood the price they would pay.
And yet, that had brought them to Terafin. It had brought Jay to Terafin. She had become the woman who ruled the House. Impossible dream, that; Jester, not given to flights of pointless fancy, had never really thought of it.
No, that was untrue.
He hated the patriciate. He had hated the patriciate on the night he’d been confined to a room in a very illegal brothel; the hatred, like a seed planted violently and without his consent, had sunk roots that he had never, ever dislodged. This was not, given Kings and priests and Kings’ Swords, the place to return to that hatred. But he had been set down apart from the main body, and was unlikely, without intervention, to be allowed to join them.
That suited him.
It did not, however, suit the cats. They understood, in theory, that they were not to intervene, not to interfere, but they used cat logic. If they were here, as Night pointed out, they weren’t interfering. They were, however, loud; no whining was as loud or as grating, and they could keep at it for hours, in Jester’s unfortunately unlimited experience.
“You might attempt to have them show your rulers some respect,” Andrei said. He stepped up on the seawall, his clothing dry, his face pinched and starched, but it seemed to Jester that the sea had almost disgorged him.
“And lose my hand?”
Snow hissed laughter.
“They will not take your hand; they will not cause anything other than your dignity any harm.”
“We might,” Night said, as Snow said, “Says who?”
Jester straightened his torn jacket; he carried no comb or brush. He suspected Andrei did, but Andrei was Hectore’s servant, not his own. “Do you know what they’re doing?”
Andrei did not answer. He folded his arms, his expression remote, as he watched.
They weren’t doing anything that seemed unusual or remarkable to Jester, if he didn’t count the fact of the congregation itself. He could see golden eyes; they were the predominant color. Duvari’s eyes were brown, which Jester knew; they were too narrowed for Jester to easily discern color otherwise. The Kings’ Swords had separated the statue of Moorelas from the people who might otherwise have chosen to visit it—and for the most part, people gaped at a very safe distance, if at all.
He glanced at the windows of distant buildings before once again dropping his gaze to the carved reliefs that encircled the statue itself. And the statue was silent, grim, its expression determined.
“Did you meet him?” Jester asked.
Meralonne had landed so silently and moved so little, he might have been a statue himself. But he looked up to the height of the statue’s graven face. “Yes, as you must know.”
“It’s a legend. A story. None of
it has to be true.” Jester shrugged. “Apparently, some of it is.”
“Some, yes. He is considered a hero, to your kind. A great man. A giant.” He smiled; the smile was weathered, the emotion behind it turned inward. “It is not the inclination of the Arianni to consider any mortal a great man. It was certainly not in the nature of the firstborn princes to do so. He was, or would have been, insignificant to us.
“But he had one quality that we lacked.”
“He could wield the sword.”
Meralonne transferred his gaze to Jester. After a long pause, he said, “He could wield the sword. Know you much of that weapon?”
“Just stories. Some say it was crafted by Fabril.”
“It predates Fabril by centuries.”
“Some say it was crafted by Myrddion.”
“That is a better lie. Ah, no; it is a better belief.”
“And it’s not true, either?”
“No, ATerafin. No.” He exhaled slowly. “It is painful to me, still, to be in this place.” Jester understood that he referred to the statue the gods called a sanctum. “There are other stories of that sword that are closer to the truth, but it is irrelevant. We could not wield it. He could. He was one of a long line of people to make the attempt; he survived it.”
“Did you try?”
“I am alive.”
“Not an answer.”
And even here, a glimmer of smile changed the shape of the magi’s face. Or perhaps it was because he had acknowledged that the past pained him—he had been that truthful. “No, Jester, it is not. There was a time when it was assumed that only namann could wield it.”
Andrei stiffened. Jester took this as a no. But he looked at Andrei again; he saw Hectore’s servant, and only Hectore’s servant. Hectore of Araven was a man that Jester had a grudging respect for; he was powerful, yes, and he was incredibly wealthy—but Jester’s investigation had unearthed very little about the man that he did not readily publicly claim.
And Jay owed Andrei her life. She remembered her debts. She made certain that other people remembered them as well.
“He is not what you are,” Night said.
“No.” Exhaling, Jester added, “He’s probably better.”
Andrei’s eyes widened slightly, but he did not speak.
“I’ve seen what Hectore’s like; I would have strangled him decades ago, if I were in your position.”
Andrei was clearly torn between stiff offense and amusement, and settled, to Jester’s surprise, on the latter.
“And if I could have managed it somehow, I’d’ve buried Jarven. I can’t understand why Hectore likes him; they’re nothing alike.”
“No,” Andrei agreed, with quiet dignity. “They are not alike.” He hesitated, rare in the Araven servant. “Do you understand what your Terafin is? What she must be?”
“I know who she is. And I know that if she has only one choice to make in order to save us, she’ll make it.”
“You trust her.”
“I don’t trust her more than you trust your master.”
Andrei bowed. “Did she tell you,” he said, watching the milling of the gathering begin to sort itself out into movements that were more deliberate, “that she offered me a home, in Terafin, serving her?”
Jester’s no was drowned by yowling cat. Two yowling cats. Since everyone present was accustomed to hearing them berate The Terafin for her stupidity, their complaints raised no brows.
“I assume she meant in the absence of Hectore.”
“You do understand her.”
Jester smiled. “Finch would make that offer as well—but Finch wouldn’t ask unless you were already homeless. She likes Hectore.”
“You do not.”
“I don’t dislike him.”
“Ah.” The servant frowned. “Jarven is here.”
Jester, however, had caught sight of Birgide. He turned to Meralonne and froze; the mage’s eyes were shining like liquid silver—liquid that nonetheless burned brightly.
“No, Jester,” Andrei surprised him by saying. “I could not wield it.”
“Did you ever meet Moorelas?”
“I?” Andrei shrugged. “I was not, I was never, trusted. Not by the god we do not name, and not by the gods we do. I was not trusted by the firstborn; I was not trusted by their offspring—those that exist. The only home I could claim was inhospitable to guests, and I have—and will have—no offspring of my own.
“I served, in my time. I served gods. I served the firstborn.” He lifted his head and seemed to Jester to gain inches of height as he spoke. The cats, to either side, fell silent, but their fur rose, as if they could hear words that he wasn’t saying, and considered them all a threat. “But I was ever on the outside; necessary in some cases, but never trusted, never—” He shook his head, as if to clear it.
“Hectore trusts you.”
Andrei glanced at Jester.
“He trusts you as much as we trust Jay. As much as we trust Ellerson. More, maybe. You have Avandar’s competence. And possibly his lack of humor. Is that a servant thing?”
“Not specifically, to my knowledge. Do you understand what they do?”
Jester, watching the Kings, shook his head. He wondered, for the first time, why they were here. As the Exalted took their places around the sanctum, the Kings joined them. Duvari appeared to be arguing with the Wisdom-born King, to no avail.
Birgide Viranyi walked to Duvari’s side only after the argument had finished; she joined him, her hands clasped loosely behind her back, her chin bowed. If the Lord of the Compact looked at her—at all—it was too subtle to be seen at this distance; nor did Birgide attempt to speak.
Were it not for the color of her eyes, she would have vanished into the crowd simply by standing still. But her eyes, like the eyes of the god-born, seemed to radiate light.
“What is she doing?” Meralonne said, his voice a whisper of sound, a whisper of Winter. To Jester’s eye, she was standing as the Astari might stand, waiting upon Duvari’s words—or gestures—before committing to action. He did not, however, doubt Meralonne.
It was Andrei who answered. “She is Warden.” As answers went, it didn’t offer much. But at the mention of the word, Jester raised his gaze from the men and women, god-born all, who congregated in a circle beneath the statue. Above the statue, above the permanent buildings around which merchants with carts and moving stalls plied their wares, he saw the trees in the Common. There had been no time in Jester’s life when the trees had not grown, had not budded, no time at which the leaves had not eventually fallen; they were as much a part of the Common as the stones of the street.
He saw that they had multiplied, somehow; that they had grown, extending their dominance of the sky. The trees that had been lost to the concerted attack of demons had reappeared, as if the fires of demonic magic had never touched them at all.
“She is Warden,” Andrei repeated, seeing what Jester saw.
“It will avail her nothing.” Meralonne now sounded annoyed.
“You mistake my meaning, Illaraphaniel—and since it is you, I must assume you do so deliberately. She has not walked these streets as Warden before. She has walked them as mortal; she has walked them as one whose responsibilities have been entirely mortal—and entirely voluntary.
“She is Warden, here. And although the Terafin manse is situated upon the Isle, you know full well that it is the Common that is the seat of this land’s power. Against you, at the moment, I think the Warden might prevail.”
Had Andrei been anyone else, Jester would have stepped on his foot.
In a chillier tone, Meralonne replied. “It is not against me that she must prevail.”
“No. Not yet, Illaraphaniel. But you will have need of her; you will have need of the roots the Ellariannatte plant. Can you not feel it? Can you not hear them?”
/>
The magi did not reply.
“I hear them, but they are three, not four.”
“Only three will come,” Meralonne whispered. “The fourth cannot travel as the three can, and his journey has not yet begun. You must pardon me for a moment.” He bowed—to Jester—and rose, as if the ground was no longer worthy enough to be walked on.
Jester watched as he drifted away, the motion too slow to be flight, but too graceful to be anything else.
“Are we expecting the Sleepers to wake?” he asked, when Meralonne was the same size as the god-born in the distance.
“We have been expecting it for some small time,” Andrei replied, with the usual amount of disapproval.
“In the future, yes.”
“It has not happened yet.” He glanced at Jester.
“Why, exactly, did Haval send me?”
“I believe he felt that Finch was of more value to the House.”
Jester snorted. Hands in pockets—one of which had been torn by his fall through the Ellarianatte—he said, “She is. But given who’s already gathered here, what did he expect me to do?”
“Decide.”
As answers went, it was unhelpful. Night and Snow hissed laughter, and Jester glared at them both.
* * *
• • •
Haval stood at the center of the people Finch privately thought of as trees. In the shallows of night, they were armed; they wore no armor.
“It is not yet your time, I think,” Haval said quietly. “And Finch? Take no risks here. We will survive the evening.”
The way he said it made her entire body tense; she lost words to a sharp, brief panic. Forcing herself to breathe through it, she found them again, but Teller signed. He had spoken very little, this eve, his expression drawn. Morning.
She signed back, but he had turned away, as if to avoid discussion.
“Will the rest of the city?”
Haval did not smile. “I do not know.”
“Have you sent for Hannerle?” It was always risky, to mention Hannerle in the wrong setting.
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