Her breath was short, slight; her throat almost closed. All the weight of her thought, all the weight of a bitter hope, returned to her; she carried it.
The Winter Queen had not refused the boon she had offered. Had not denied it, as she had denied the first, the most responsible, of her requests. And it was the first thing she had asked for, the salvation of the city itself—but it was not the thing that she wanted. Carver, however, was.
She wondered if there was kindness—Summer kindness—in the Winter Queen. She had refused the one thing that Jewel must put above all others; had claimed that it was not a certainty; had all but demanded that Jewel ask a different boon, a different favor.
And she had not rejected it. Had not spoken of impossibility. Had not even asked who Carver was, or where he might be.
“Be at peace, Terafin. No man can be Summer King—or Winter—who does not desire it with the whole of his mortal being. I can enspell; all my kin can. But our very presence was oft considered enspelling, with no intent on our part. Do you doubt it?”
Jewel shook her head.
Ariane turned to the Winter King. Softly, she said, “You have not disappointed me. You are mine; she cannot return you to me; I have not—and will not—surrender you. But serve her, at my pleasure, for a little while longer. You will know when you are done.”
He did not answer, but Jewel knew, suddenly, he could. No other could hear his voice save the Winter Queen and the woman he had been ordered to serve. He bowed his great, tined head almost to the ground, and the shadow he cast in the odd light of this clearing was the shape and size of man.
* * *
• • •
Jewel expected the Winter Queen to open the lid of the Artisan-crafted box; she did not. She turned, instead, to Kallandras, the box held firmly in her hands. “I have been asked to allow you one liberty, Kallandras of Senniel.”
The Arianni seemed neither surprised nor disapproving, and if Jewel had wondered how Cessaly was treated, how she was perceived, she had most of her answer in their reaction. They knew who had asked—or, given Cessaly—who had begged.
“You are wise enough not to truly sing in the wilderness without the knowledge and permission of the land’s Lord; might you consider singing, instead, at her request?”
Kallandras swept a magnificent bow, a thing of supple grace. “At your command.”
“Wait but a moment,” she said although he had not begun. She lifted her head and spoke a single word.
A long word, at the heart of which was a name. She retraced the syllables a second time, and then, deliberately, a third.
And when the last of those utterances fell silent, Shianne moved past Jewel and the rest of her companions to walk into the presence, at last, of the Winter Queen.
* * *
• • •
None of the bitterness of regret adorned the Winter Queen’s face, but none of the warmth of affection troubled it, either. She beckoned Shianne forward, as if the calling itself had not been, or was no longer, authority enough.
This close to the Winter Queen, Jewel could see the echo of Ariane’s beauty; it was a fading thing, a thing which time would steal, as it had already begun to do. And even had that not been the case, Shianne was large with child; the slender waist of the Winter Queen was entirely absent.
She wore the dress that Snow had created for her at Jewel’s request, and Jewel knew there was no shape or size she could be or become that the dress would not accommodate.
“I would have spared you this,” Ariane said softly. “I did, as I could.”
Shianne was silent.
“But that has been undone now.” She bowed her head. “I will wake our sisters. They will ride with me into battle, because this will be the last great war.”
Shianne remained silent, still.
“You do not understand the whole of what was done, and I am not what I was when you were first created; no more am I what I was when Darranatos was lost.”
Now the court held breath, as if the very mention of that name had been forbidden them for eternity. But she was Queen, not subject; her will was absolute, her laws meant to be followed by those who were destined to obey.
And yet, Jewel thought, as her eyes were drawn to Shianne, her gaze held there by a compulsion that had nothing to do with gods, immortals, and eternity, they did not always obey. For no reason she understood, she thought of Andrei and bowed her head. No one, be they god or mortal, was a simple, cohesive whole. Even if they could cleave to one vision, one intention, their desires had to be managed, subverted, or denied.
“Remember,” Ariane said, turning briefly to Jewel, “you have asked for the one boon it is in me to grant; I will cede no other.” She turned to Shianne. “Will you not speak?”
Silence.
“Then sing, Shandalliaran. Sing for me. You alone are not forsworn, and yet you are lost to me, lost to us, just as certainly as if you were.”
* * *
• • •
Shianne had been all but silent in the wake of Darranatos’ passing; she had been pale, her eyes almost swollen with the tears she had shed. Her determination had given way, briefly, to sorrow, and the sorrow had not abated upon her entry into the Hidden Court. She stood across from Ariane, the White Lady of her dreams, her yearning, and Jewel understood that Shianne did not entirely know the woman with whom she was, after so much time, confronted.
Ariane spoke again, this time in a language whose meaning evaded Jewel’s understanding, although she wore the ring that had allowed her to understand the Wild Hunt; Shianne lifted a hand and placed it, finally, in the hand that the White Lady extended. Had, Jewel thought, in some surprise, extended the moment she had called Shianne from the crowd to her side.
“You will never return to me,” the White Lady said. “But I swear, while you live your brief life, you will never be far from me. I did not desire your captivity or your absence; I desired your existence. Will you sing for me? It has been long since I have heard your voice.”
“I have heard yours,” Shianne whispered. She hesitated, and as she did, the White Lady turned toward the bard. She issued no commands, but instead inclined her head.
Kallandras nodded. The lute that he had played in a stately, quiet fashion, an aural carpet for Jewel to walk, he once again played, his fingers dancing across the strings in a quiet storm of sound. He did not sing, not immediately; the lute did that for him. Even without the accompaniment of his voice, the song he now coaxed from its rounded, wooden body demanded, commanded, attention.
But not nearly as much as his voice did, when he finally began to sing. Jewel had heard Kallandras sing before; she had always found it moving, regardless of the song. But she thought, hearing him now, that she had only heard an echo of the power of the bard-born; that perhaps he had been wise beyond belief to refuse to sing without the White Lady’s permission.
Now she thought the air responded, as did the earth beneath his feet. Strands of the Winter Queen’s hair moved, and above her head, above all their heads, the branches of the great tree swayed, gently shedding leaves in a carpet of colors: spring, summer, fall.
As he sang, Kallandras walked; the Senniel bards could do this in their sleep, or worse, without interrupting their performance. But this was beyond performance; he approached Shianne because the song he sang was not one he wished to carry alone.
Even Celleriant’s gaze had moved from the White Lady to the bard, and it remained there for the duration of the song.
Jewel recognized the tenor of Kallandras’ voice and felt her throat constrict at the painful, desperate yearning his song conveyed: he was a man who longed for home, but might never return, and he knew it. And yet, in that song, the desire for home, the love of it, made of home something very like the distant heavens—as real as safety or peace while one lived.
Shianne looked away from Ariane, t
oward the bard; her hand tightened on the White Lady’s hand, and her arms trembled visibly. But she bowed her head as Kallandras sang, and Jewel was not surprised when Shianne joined him, her voice the equal of his, although she was now mortal. They had sung thus once before: as if the world had all but ended, and they were the survivors, bereft of any reason to continue.
She did not recognize the song; it was not the same song that Shianne had sung, newly born from stone, and free once again to move in the wilderness. Nor was it the song she had sung—as if only song could contain the intensity of emotion—for Darranatos’ passing. Kallandras, at the request of the White Lady, had chosen.
But he was bard here; he understood that it was not, in the end, his voice or his song which Ariane desired. Jewel listened as he gave way, slowly, to Shianne; as he turned from melody to harmony, his voice blending with hers and supporting it; as his fingers shifted on the neck of his lute and the notes became a different kind of harmony.
She opened her eyes—when had she closed them?—only when Shianne’s voice faltered. Although Kallandras adjusted his volume, his notes, it was impossible to cover for the sudden absence of hers.
But when Jewel’s eyes were open, she understood why Shianne had momentarily lost her voice. Understood, as well, that the silence in this wild throne room was not the simple silence of an intent audience—it was far deeper and far more terrifying in its fashion.
The White Lady was crying.
She did not weep as Shianne had wept; she was Winter Queen. Her expression was remote, distant, controlled, as it had been since Jewel had approached her throne. But her silver eyes were closed, and tears caught light, trailing down her cheeks. Her hands held Shianne’s, and it seemed to Jewel that those hands had tightened; that Shianne had attempted to pull away and was given no room at all to maneuver.
No one moved. It seemed to Jewel that no one breathed. Kallandras, however, continued the song he had offered the White Lady, reprising the melody of his opening; carrying, for the moment, the responsibility of the burden of sorrow, of pain, of loss.
And then there was movement, frenetic, harsh movement, a wild flapping of limbs that suggested frenzied wingbeats, although the arms and legs belonged to a mortal.
Cessaly ran to the White Lady, almost toppling two of the Arianni who had, as Jewel had, been almost spellbound with the enormity of what they had heard and what they had seen.
No one touched Cessaly. No one attempted to restrain her.
She did what no one there could otherwise dare to do: she approached the White Lady, her rough, sun-bronzed, callused hands reaching for Ariane’s face. For her cheeks.
In those hands, she cupped the tears that Ariane now shed, as if they were precious stones, gems of higher quality than she had ever seen. And it seemed to Jewel, watching, that that was exactly what the tears had become: something cold and hard and bright; something that caught light, reflecting it and swallowing it simultaneously.
She remembered Gilafas then and cast about the audience; she could not see him. But Gilafas had done exactly this with the Ellariannatte and its branches. She understood that Cessaly meant to make with them; to use the talents of an Artisan to create. And Ariane was willing to allow her this freedom; the entire assembled court reacted as if she were a capricious, but beautiful, butterfly. No offense was taken. Indeed, there seemed to be relief and even surprised enlightenment.
Shianne’s eyes widened as Cessaly retreated; she lowered her chin, but straightened her shoulders, and she once again took up the song that grief and surprise had caused her to abandon. This time, she continued; this time, she gave herself over to the emotion inherent in the song itself. She made no further attempt to retrieve her hands; instead, she tightened her grip, resolved in some fashion to sing what she would never be able to speak to the White Lady otherwise.
Jewel knew, before the song ended, what would happen.
It was visceral knowledge, not a conclusion drawn from observed fact, and as a result she was the second person to move. She was not Cessaly; she drew the eye and the disapproval of all in the audience who noticed, for all that she attempted to be more discreet. But the White Lady did not notice, and what the White Lady did not condescend to notice, her people could not.
No, she had eyes for Shianne, and only Shianne.
Jewel, however, had eyes now for Adam. She lifted her hands in den-sign and almost lifted her voice, but Angel’s eyes caught the rough, deliberate motion of her hands; he turned instantly, lifting his hands as he did. She couldn’t see what he signed; she could see his back.
And then she could see Adam. The expression of awe that informed his youthful features cracked as his eyes widened; he read her den-sign and turned instantly toward Shianne as the last notes of her song faded. He was, and had always been, very cautious when in the presence of women of power, and this should have been no exception; he had never been in the presence of so powerful a woman. But he was Adam, healer-born, and he understood Jewel’s frenetic, silent gestures. He moved instantly toward Shianne and reached for her as the last of the song died into a stillness that would have been reverent had it not been for his presence.
Shianne did not appear to notice him; Ariane did.
“You,” the White Lady said softly, meeting his gaze, “will never be mine.” And speaking thus, she released Shianne’s hand. Shianne stumbled, her hands reaching for the Winter Queen’s almost of their own volition, but Adam caught them instead.
His eyes narrowed, and he turned, once, to look over his shoulder at the utterly silent White Lady.
Ariane said, “Yes.” Just that, her voice soft and simultaneously implacable.
“Lord?” Celleriant’s voice was soft in the same way.
“Shianne,” Jewel said, “is about to have a baby.”
* * *
• • •
Jewel had never personally witnessed a birthing before. As an only child—a state her Oma had alternately lamented and resented—she knew that midwives existed, but she had never seen one at work. She had seen pregnant women, of course, but had never desired to become one of them.
Had she, she would have lost all resolve.
Shianne was as white as a very expensive sheet; she gripped Adam’s hands, hard, her eyes widening. She did not scream or cry.
Adam began to shout orders, but not in a panicked way; it was clear that although he was half Jewel’s age, he had seen births.
He had seen children die.
He had seen mothers die, sometimes with them, sometimes on their own.
Jewel had arrived at the foot of Ariane’s throne as Celleriant’s Lord; she would leave, in the end, as Jewel Markess. She strode over to Adam, surprised when Terrick said, “I will acquire what you need. I would suggest we remove to the baths.” Terrick, much older than any here save Kallandras, then departed.
Jewel placed a hand on Adam’s shoulder. “If you mean to heal her, follow Terrick’s advice. The moss is soft, and the water is warm.”
He blinked, and she repeated the words in Torra. And then, continuing in Torra, she said, “You are healer-born, Adam. What you witnessed in the past—whatever it is—you can prevent. In your hands, both Shianne and the baby will be safe.”
He hesitated. “Levec said—” He winced as Shianne’s grip tightened. He tried to retrieve his hand, to no effect whatsoever; Shianne clung to him. Jewel had seen her look terrified only once before. This, however, was different.
“Kallandras.”
The bard nodded, turning, once again, to Ariane, as if seeking permission to do as Jewel had wordlessly requested.
Commanded.
The White Lady nodded.
The air began to move with force and will, and it swept both Adam and Shianne off the ground; it was gentle, and this, more than anything, told Jewel that Kallandras had taken the wind’s reins; he would have to placate
it later.
Adam and Shianne, however, were carried to the side of what Cessaly had called a bath; Terrick had already taken blankets from the packs.
“Have you seen a birth before, Terafin?” he asked.
Jewel mutely shook her head.
“It gets a little bit messy. Sometimes,” he added, “loud. This one has the Winter in her; she’s birthed from the howling winds.” It was, from the sounds of it, a compliment. Terrick, however, looked grim—as grim as when he hefted his ax and entered battle.
Jewel could not fail to know that women died in childbirth. Had she, she had only to look at the weathered face of the Rendish warrior to read that knowledge in the lines of his face. But she said, again, “Adam is healer-born.”
She repeated this as the hours passed.
To herself, many times. To Adam when he seemed to flag. To Terrick, when the knuckles on involuntary fists grew too white. And to Shianne herself, but only once; Shianne would not be parted from Adam, and Adam appeared to have no desire to leave her side.
There was water. There was—much more disturbing—blood. There was obvious pain, fear, distress. Jewel repeated her own words to herself as she paced—and she did pace, like a great caged beast with little room in which to maneuver. She wanted to do something, yet there was nothing she could do.
Adam, half her age, was calm now, focused on Shianne. He did not enter a healing trance; he allowed himself to become her anchor, and he spoke to her, his voice low, his words encouraging. He spoke in Torra. Jewel wasn’t certain that Shianne understood the words; she understood their intent, and she seemed to take comfort in between spasms of pain that caused her to stiffen and clench his hands.
It was Angel who tapped Jewel’s shoulder, and Angel who drew her away.
“The Winter Queen wishes to speak with you.”
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