“Birgide is where she must be,” Haval countered, “and Birgide is not, as you are, kin to the woman who has claimed and shaped these lands.”
“I was trained to handle people like Jarven.”
Haval nodded. “Inasmuch as Jarven can be handled, you have done well. And the wilderness, in the end, is not so very different. As Jarven, as the fire itself, it cannot be fully owned or claimed; it can be guided, it can be fenced in, but no more. Guide the forest, Finch. I will be here.”
“Moorelas’ Sanctum is—”
“I know. But I will be with you. Hannerle will understand.”
“Haval—”
“She would not forgive me for decades if I abandoned the forest and its regent now. She knows what is coming, what might come; she has seen it far more clearly than even I.” Finch remembered, then, that he had chosen Hannerle over any possible duty to Kings, to Empire. He had chosen to be what Hannerle needed.
“If the Exalted and the Kings cannot face the Sleepers, what can we hope to do?”
“Flee them,” he replied. “But understand, Finch, that they were men of power. In a bygone age, they were significant. Do you think that they commanded no armies? Do you think that they ruled in isolation? You know that the heralds have been circling Averalaan for some small time; do you honestly believe that they are the only ones?”
7th day of Lattan, 428 A.A.
Moorelas’ Sanctum, Averalaan
In the lee of the Common, at the edge of Moorelas’ Sanctum, Jester perched on the seawall, resting both chin and arms around the one knee he’d raised. Andrei remained by his side but did not condescend to sit; Snow and Night had been attempting to occupy the same yard of the seawall, but even they kept their voices low—for squabbling cats who couldn’t be called quiet by any but the most generous.
The Common held memories for him, not all of which were bad, but Moorelas’ Sanctum, as the statue and environs had been called, was not among the better ones.
Half a lifetime ago, the Kings and the Exalted had gathered in exactly this place, and Jester wondered if what they had accomplished that evening had led indirectly to this one. They had made clear to the city that the statue was called a sanctum for a reason. Where possible, Jester had avoided crossing even the hint of its shadow since that day. The Kings had opened a way into the undercity that the den itself had not been aware of until Duster and Jay had managed to escape it.
Duster had escaped to land in Moorelas’ shadow.
Duster was dead.
He understood that these were the thoughts of a frightened child, and kept them to himself, his arms tightening briefly around the one raised leg. It was night; there were no shadows here.
But lack of shadow did not mean safety. Absent the Kings, the Exalted, and their many guards and attendants, the Common was practically empty—but even that, Jester had expected. He had thought that the Kings’ Swords—or worse, the Astari—would question him, tell him to move, but no one approached. Perhaps Birgide had spoken on his behalf; he did not believe he had simply been overlooked. Not when Duvari was present.
Or perhaps it was Meralonne, his feet once again touching earth, the bent form of Sigurne Mellifas at his side. They conversed. In the scant light of lanterns and torches, Meralonne’s face could be seen clearly; Sigurne’s could not. He did not trust either, but the lack of trust incurred no resentment. Their concerns were the whole of the Empire, against which one lazy ATerafin counted for nothing. In their position, he was certain he would do the same.
The Kings and the Exalted formed a circle, clasping hands as if they were orphans. They lifted their faces, and as incense was lit, they began to chant, their tones low and constant, the spoken syllables both clear and unintelligible.
For one hour, the Exalted and the Kings stood, ringed by those who had undertaken to serve and protect them, their faces turned toward the night sky as if beseeching the heavens. They seemed almost to sing.
Around them, braziers burned; incense rose from those tiny pyres, tended by robed priests, and guarded by the Kings’ Swords. Those Swords faced outward. Although barricades had been put in place, the enterprising—and the homeless—could be seen in the shadows, their curiosity pulling them forward, the presence of the Kings’ forces pushing them back.
Birgide remained close to those guards, her hands behind her back, her head tilted forward as if the effort of listening had physical weight.
The Kings’ voices rose and fell, and it seemed to Jester, watching, that the trees of the Common grew as they spoke. Before the Common had been attacked by demons, Jester had known the location of each and every one of the Ellariannatte that had grown, until Jay’s forest, nowhere else in the world. Almost all children did. And he knew that there were now trees in the streets where no trees had once grown.
His eyes found Birgide. He was surprised when she lifted her head and looked directly at him, her eyes slightly narrowed as if she had minor trouble focusing. He lowered his leg and pushed himself down from the seawall, intending to join her; she shook her head and bowed it again. He wondered if the Kings and the Exalted were aware of the Ellariannatte that were growing around them.
Wondered what people would think in the morning, because he was certain that these new trees were now a permanent part of the landscape.
Wondered if the merchants who were not wealthy enough to own permanent storefronts would now be out of a place to set up their stalls. It was a stray thought, but it was a stubborn one; something mundane in the midst of the threat of magic. And to those whose living depended on the open paths in the Common, it might be as certain an end as the Sleepers.
He bowed his head, understanding then that he was ATerafin, but the whole of his life and thought had roots in the simple struggle to survive in a peaceful, whole city.
If they were dead, those struggling merchants, those farmers, had no future. Jay had taught him that; had reached out and broken his chains, had dragged him along in her wake. Had never let him go. Survive, and there was hope.
Hope was painful in its own way. Hope meant you still believed you had something to lose. And tonight, in this growing forest, beneath the night sky and the stone eyes of Moorelas, there was too damn much to lose. Hope was fear. And, damn it, it shouldn’t be.
Jester planted his feet more firmly on the ground and turned to Andrei. “Do you understand a word they’re saying?” He nodded in the direction of the Kings and the Exalted.
“Yes.”
Jester waited, but no explanation, no translation, was forthcoming. Andrei was at his most servantlike, here; stiff, humorless, watchful. Jester understood why, but that stiffness was not in him; it felt too much like fear, like conceding to fear. But this Andrei was, if familiar, not a man he could reach, except possibly by petty annoyance, and even Jester had limits.
* * *
• • •
The wind changed. It was subtle; subtle enough that it did not disturb the conversations of the powerful. Meralonne had left him to join those conversations, and he imagined that Jarven—in one form or another—was loitering close at hand, as well.
But if the wind was subtle, it was not the only change; he felt the sudden silence of the Kings as an almost physical blow. Although the Kings and the Exalted remained in their small circle, their hands joined, their faces lifted, they had ceased to speak.
No, Jester thought; their lips were moving. But he could no longer hear them. He could hear the silence as if it were the only form of communication allowed.
“Yes,” Andrei said quietly. “They are coming, now. The horns have stopped.” He glanced at Jester, his expression shifting into one of concern. “I am uncertain that the Councillor was correct,” he finally said. “I do not believe this is the place for you.”
“Haval, while annoying, is seldom mistaken. It is one of his least endearing traits.” Although Jester could have spoken the words,
he hadn’t; Jarven had. And Jarven, golden fox in his arms, appeared beside Andrei. His eyes were gleaming in the soft light, but his expression was absent his usual glee. “Eldest.”
The fox nodded, the motion regal, if distracted. The almost obscene joy that Jarven habitually displayed seemed to have transferred itself in its entirety to the fox. The Terafin merchant knelt and set the fox upon the ground.
“You are certain?” he asked the fox.
The fox tilted his head to the side. “You are not?”
Jarven’s response was a brief display of teeth that could barely be called a smile. “I am.” He rose. He held one dagger in his left hand. “May I leave Jester with you?” he asked the Araven servant.
Andrei nodded. “For the moment. I cannot guarantee—”
“There are no guarantees. There have never been guarantees. It is what makes life interesting.”
Before Andrei could reply—and his grimace implied that he meant to do so—the ground buckled beneath their feet.
Snow smacked Jester with the lift of a wing, and when Jester glared at him said, “Stupid. Climb on.” His voice dropped into a low growl; his fangs seemed to grow. Jester grimaced and made his way onto the cat’s back. The white head then turned, and Snow hissed at his brother.
“Not yet,” Night replied, although Snow hadn’t spoken. “Not yet, but sssooooon.” He seemed to find this amusing.
Snow did not. It took a moment for Jester to realize that for Snow, the fun would be spoiled by having to carry Jester, and he almost climbed off the cat’s back, but Andrei shook his head.
“They understand the way the wind is blowing, ATerafin. It pains me to admit this, but you will be safest where you are. I do not believe the eldest will drop you.”
“I can,” Snow told the Araven servant.
“Yes, Eldest. But can and will have different meanings here.”
The ground moved again; the ominous creak of stone under pressure overwhelmed Jester’s awareness of the breeze and its movement. He watched the first of the stones laid out around Moorelas as it split.
A cry rose; the Exalted glanced once at the statue of Moorelas, lowering their heads in unison. Moorelas, the hero of wars so ancient Jester had never fully believed they existed, teetered precariously as it looked out to the seawall and beyond, to the Isle.
And then it righted itself, the angle of its head changing as it looked down at the people gathered beneath it. It had always been safe to wander at will around the statue’s base at night—for those suspicious enough to believe in the omen of Moorelas’ shadow—but there was no safety now; Jester finally understood, as he looked at the ground around the statue, that it was all shadow, and that shadow now covered the holdings and stretched, as Moorelas’ stone eyes gazed across the water, to the Isle itself, as if searching for something.
There, to the east, to the north, meticulously and almost desperately, that stone face turned—but he did not turn south; he saw whatever he wanted or needed to see in the West. Only then did he turn his gaze to the people congregated around his feet, and, opening his mouth, he spoke. And he spoke in a voice that was many voices, all at once: old and young, male and female, grating and soothing, deep and high.
“We have done what we can, for as long as we can. Now, it is in your hands, children of a’Neamis.” He lifted his great stone arms as the ground began to crumble beneath him. Beneath them all.
The High Wilderness
The quiet joy of the Arianni permeated everything on either side of the standing portal. They did not sing; they did not dance; they did not cheer. Nor did they fall all over the White Lady, hugging her or crying. If seen from a distance, the muted joy might not be noticed at all: they walked in an almost military formation, single file, toward the Lord Jewel had come to understand they yearned for constantly.
She lingered on the far side, unwilling to invade the privacy they had not asked for.
No, it was more than that. Yollana of the Havallan Voyani had been a figure of terror to Jewel; she was the single most intimidating person Jewel had ever met. She had surrendered—had sacrificed—her own kin in preparation for the Kialli infiltration of the Dominion of Annagar. Yollana had paid for that sacrifice; Jewel understood that now. But she had been horrified at the time, certain that with Yollana, there was no safety. Less safety, even, than being at a distance, because it was her way to use whatever was at hand.
Jewel had never wanted to rule. She had assumed, in a childhood so far beneath the seats of power, that the powerful had happy, carefree lives—and in some fashion, they did: they were free of the worries that drove the den. They would not starve. They would not freeze to death. They would not outgrow clothing they could not afford to replace; nor would they lose toes to lack of shoes.
Those fears, the powerful did not have.
But the fears the powerful did have occupied the whole of her thought now. One person must remain in the Hidden Court if Summer was to reign. One. Yollana could easily make that choice. She would have accepted without hesitation.
Jewel had never wanted to be Yollana.
The Winter King’s interior voice was almost lacerating in its outrage. Any one of these men would be elevated. They would be exalted. Do you not understand what they would become? They would be the Summer King—they would be the heart of the Hidden Court. Not for Summer the roads of war; not for Summer the last Winter hunt.
She heard the yearning in his voice, and she remembered. This man—what remained of him—wanted nothing but Ariane. Winter or Summer. She thought that she could leave him as Summer King without guilt.
And she felt his pain.
Yes, he wanted this. Yes, she had promised that she would ask. But she knew, even thinking it, that it would be impossible. She could ask, but the answer would—and must—be no.
Think. I have thought you weak, but never foolish; ignorant, but never stupid. But this hesitance is folly. You think of your own loss; you do not think of what any of your companions have to gain.
But Avandar did not enjoin criticism to the Winter King’s, if he was aware of it at all. He waited. The Arianni left them all, standing on this side of the arch while the minutes passed.
It was Kallandras who chose to break the unnatural stillness; Jewel had made a decision, and if, having made it, she could not fully commit to it, he could. He turned to her and offered her a bow that would have been appropriate only in the presence of the Kings or the Exalted. When he rose, he looked to Celleriant. And Jewel understood that the bard had not broken the stillness for her sake, but for Celleriant’s; it was the first time that she had seen Celleriant look hesitant.
Kallandras did not attempt to offer Lord Celleriant comfort or assurances. The White Lady had granted harbor and safety to all of Jewel’s companions. But the only one who was—who had been—part of that court was Celleriant, until his failure.
The failure alone did not count against him. But he had sworn an oath to serve Jewel as Lord and master—and that would. Yet he nodded to Kallandras, and when Kallandras entered the portal, Celleriant followed.
Angel waited. Terrick, however, did not. He glanced at Jewel, and when she met his gaze, he nodded. He picked up his heavy pack, shouldered it, and walked through the portal. Angel lifted his hands.
Jewel, catching the movement out of the corner of her eyes, hesitated. She understood that those who remained would not walk through that portal until she did and understood as well that she would lose one of them.
Shianne, however, placed a hand on her shoulder. Jewel turned to her instantly; the echo of Ariane in her features almost hurt to look upon. She realized that Shianne was almost as terrified as she was. They were not afraid of the same things; they couldn’t be. But they were looking loss straight in the face, and even knowing it and accepting it was a constant struggle.
Or perhaps not. Jewel recognized fear, yet
she could not with certainty say what caused it. She knew only that Shianne was not of the Arianni; she would enter the Hidden Court at Jewel’s side or not at all. But Shianne had seen Ariane’s brief expression when their eyes had met, and she could not even pretend that the White Lady would feel gratitude at the sacrifice she had chosen to make.
She was not surprised when the Winter King spoke. She would kill you were she to think you would turn away before giving the White Lady what she requires; she would take what you carry through the portal without a backward glance.
I know.
Must you then assume she is not what she is?
No. The fact that she’d kill me doesn’t change the fact that she’s afraid. Both things can be true.
One is irrelevant.
To you, yes.
Her fear will not harm you. It will not—
Fear is harmful. People are stupid when they’re terrified. They make stupid mistakes, stupid decisions. You were once Tor Amanion. You ruled one of the Cities of Man. The city no longer exists. Her interior voice was as flat as it would have been had she spoken. But powerful or no, Tor or no, were it not for the Sen, you would have been just as helpless as any other man.
Fear is a tool.
Yes. Yes, it is. But to you and your kind, it is the only tool. You do not understand any of the others—and there are others, Winter King. There always have been.
Those tools did not save my city.
No—but neither did fear.
She had already made her decision; all that remained was guilt, and that was in the future. She had walked away from Carver for the sake of the entire city. If she did not do this now, the pain of that parting would be in vain; he would have been lost for nothing. Jewel lifted a hand, signed to Adam; she waited until his hand had fallen away. She left him with Shianne as she walked beneath the standing arch.
The moment she took a step, Shadow was beside her. He shouldered Avandar out of the way, growled at Angel, and took a swipe at the Winter King, his tail lashing from side to side as if everyone present was a threat. Everyone but Jewel, who grimaced and dropped a hand to the top of his head.
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