“Not without permission.”
This seemed to satisfy Cessaly.
“Eat. Eat and sleep.”
Cessaly nodded. “I wanted to see you before you left, and you’ll be leaving soon.”
Jewel nodded again.
* * *
• • •
Packing to leave was not an exalted event. Although legends made much of leave-takings and Jewel could be forgiven the feeling that she was walking in legend itself, there was no ceremony. The Winter Queen did not summon her court, did not preside upon her unearthly throne, and did not bless them with gifts. Or words.
The Winter King—Jewel’s Winter King—joined them as they packed.
You don’t want to stay?
He did.
And if I order you to remain?
In the end, it is the White Lady’s commands I obey, and she has made clear what she desires of me. Jewel had thought he might radiate despair and was surprised he did not.
Did you not hear her? What I have given her no one else could have given her—her freedom. She will ride, Jewel. She will ride—not to hunt, but to war. She will summon the whole of the host.
But you’ll be stuck with me.
She felt his instant disapproval, and for some strange reason, that buoyed spirits that were almost as low as they could become. How much more would she have to surrender? How much of herself could she abandon—as she was abandoning this baby—and still be herself?
Celleriant was likewise subdued, but Jewel had expected that; nor did she order him to remain. She understood, on a bone-deep level, that he was hers. He was hers, not in the way the den was, but perhaps in a way that was as close as the Arianni themselves could come: he had chosen. And while she lived, he would fight for her; if it became necessary, he would die for her.
And if he died, she thought, he would never truly come home. Would never again see the Summer Court, see the wilderness at the height of its wakefulness. She had never liked him; he was too cold, too austere, and too casually bloodthirsty for that. But she had not, on the day she had ridden up the side of a great tree, wanted him to suffer. And the only time she had seen him weep— She shook her head.
As if he could hear that thought, he turned toward her. And, to her great surprise, he smiled. If the smile was not precisely warm, it was as close to warmth as she had ever seen him come.
Terrick and Angel shouldered packs, and if Jewel thought that the White Lady had left them nothing of significance, Terrick demurred. “She spoke with Angel while you were speaking with the young woman. We offered to call you, but she seemed to think the young woman’s meeting was too important to interrupt. She’s lightened the bags we carry a great deal.” Something in his tone made this sound less appealing than it should have.
“Is there something wrong?”
“No.” He could have said yes, could have shouted yes, in the same tone.
Jewel signed to Angel, and her den-kin grimaced behind his Rendish companion’s broad back. “Her attendants emptied our packs for us. They didn’t openly criticize their contents, but they made clear that we were to leave them behind. I imagine, given their disposition, to be burned.”
And well they should be, the Winter King said. They are not fit for your use.
We used them well enough on the road here. On all the roads.
And what she has condescended to share will be far, far more valuable; it will not wear, it will not fray, it will not tarnish. Dirt will not cling to it, nor water, where water is undesired. She has gifted you with things ancient that were highly coveted in my reign.
Do you even know what she gave them?
I know that it will be of far more use, far more value, than what they had.
Which meant no.
She didn’t ask Angel if he trusted the gift; doubting Ariane in a fashion that could not be ignored was never going to be wise. Jewel herself trusted the Winter Queen in this regard but understood why Terrick was disgruntled. Kallandras joined them shortly thereafter. He asked, in the way of the bard-born, after Master Gilafas, but Jewel shook her head. “He’ll join us when he’s able.” Lifting her voice, she called for Shadow; he came instantly, as if he had been directly underfoot all this time, unseen and unheard.
His voice was not the Winter King’s; he said nothing. But he paced restlessly, and Jewel was certain she would hear a volley of his favorite words—stupid and boring—the minute he was no longer a guest in the White Lady’s court. And that, too, was comforting.
What was not comforting was the prospect of what she might face upon her return. But she understood that Ariane would come, at the head of her host; that she would, as she could, preserve what was left of Averalaan in the face of the enraged princes whose slumber had finally broken. It was Jewel’s job—if it could be called that—to hold out until that moment.
The last Summer.
The last Summer, the last Summer King.
She felt the shadow of doubt as she fastened buttons. Shianne had found Ariane markedly changed; might the Sleepers not, in the end, feel the same? And, if so, would they obey her? Would they heed her at all? She had no answers. No insight, no certainty, came to alleviate her doubts.
Regardless, she had her duties. She could not remain here, waiting. But these lands are timeless.
No, Terafin. When you are told that you will emerge at the same moment you left, this is not accurate. In the eyes of the immortal, it is truth. One day, two days, are of little relevance; they might notice the passing of hours more keenly because the sun has set or risen. But time does pass. It is why the White Lady did not bid you wait here, in safety, until she is ready.
No, it’s not. This, Jewel spoke with certainty. She’s afraid that if I remain, I will do everything in my power to influence the child as he grows.
He did not directly disagree, but instead said, Nonetheless, the point remains. To the Wild Hunt, no time will have passed. But to you and yours, a day might pass, or even a few hours, before the White Lady might at last take command of all roads that lead into—and out of—her lands. Can you risk those hours? Can you risk that day? You, too, will age, as the child ages.
I’m not worried about aging.
No, Terafin. Worry, instead, about the lost hours, the lost day.
She bowed her head. Lifted it and turned, almost blindly, toward Angel. Angel who could not hear her discussion with the Winter King and had not spoken a word about the infant. Nor had he spoken with Adam; no one had. Adam had remained with Shianne and the child, as if the whole of the world and the threat of gods and demons was less relevant, by far, than the immediate needs of a new mother and her babe.
But it was time, now, for Adam to leave. Had they been in a more neutral court, a more neutral land, she would have been almost relieved to leave him here; she had no doubt that Ariane would protect him. But here, the line between protection and ownership was far too thin, and Jewel understood that this was not the place that Adam must at last call home. She did not know why, but she did not question it; perhaps later, she would.
Adam could be Summer King.
Almost gently, the Winter King said, She said he will never be hers.
Yes, by his own choice. But if he remains here—
No, Terafin. He might offer to take the child’s place—and indeed, I think it likely if he remains—but it is not enough to offer. What she requires, I do not believe it is in your Adam to give.
He’s not— She stopped. Squared shoulders. What she had been about to say was not, on some fundamental level, true.
He is not yours?
She did not agree. Could not agree. He’s one of mine, she finally said. He’s den.
You did not choose him.
He didn’t need a family when I first met him. He doesn’t need one now. He has a family to return to, and they’re waiting. But she exha
led. Finch found him in the Houses of Healing. Finch brought him home. And he’s made a second home for himself here, with the den. He is one of mine. And I will not leave him here to her.
He would be safer.
Jewel did not reply.
And if he wishes to stay?
She lifted a hand, signed a single word. Adam.
Angel moved. She could hear his retreat but did not turn to witness it. When he returned, Adam was by his side. But so, too, Shianne. Shianne wore the dress Snow had created for her at Jewel’s request. Her hair was pulled back, bound in a very patrician style that implied power, certainty. Her eyes were gray—gray and clear. To Jewel’s great discomfort, Shianne bowed. To her. It was not a perfunctory gesture; it was a sweeping, graceful physical expression of utter obeisance.
Shadow hissed and stepped on Jewel’s foot before Jewel could tell Shianne to rise, and to stop. His foot was not light.
Shianne lifted her face, to meet Jewel’s embarrassed gaze, and an odd smile touched her face, shaped by curve of lip and corners of eyes and something other that Jewel couldn’t immediately name.
“I have asked one boon of the White Lady,” she said, rising.
Celleriant was instantly alert, but Shianne had turned, briefly, toward Adam.
“And that boon?”
“I wish to travel with you now. She will come to your city when she is capable of leaving, and I . . . do not wish to stay.”
“But—but—the baby—”
“No child will be cared for as this child is cared for, and no child born to mortal parents will ever be so exalted as he will become. It is not his death that will free the White Lady, do you not understand that? It is his life. It is his commitment to Summer and the White Lady herself.
“Adam says that the child desires this.”
Jewel turned immediately toward the Voyani youth. She even opened her mouth. But the words would not leave her.
“He is not like other infants,” Adam said, voice unusually hesitant. “From the first, Matriarch, he had voice, he had thoughts, he had a will of his own.”
“He had his mother’s will.”
“Ah, no. He had mother love—and in some fashion, no matter how broken it might become, we all have that. But in time, we grow away from it, apart from it.” He frowned. “No. It is not that. When born, we are new; what we have is that. We do not name it, we do not understand enough to name it. We change because we find the words and the thoughts to name it—but by that time, we name other things as well. It is not that our love lessens, but it is no longer the center of our world, no longer the whole of it; our world becomes larger, and larger still.
“His world is not the world an infant sees.”
Jewel could not believe that these words had come from Adam. She had expected something different; had expected that, of all people present, he would be the most upset, that he would shoulder the most guilt. That he would judge her.
And he wouldn’t; she saw that now. To Adam, no matter what he might call her, she was Matriarch. Matriarch of Terafin, a clan that disavowed blood ties, but nonetheless was kin. Had Adam been Havallan, he would not have flinched when Yollana had sacrificed—literally—three Havallans against future need.
What would the Voyani do, should their Matriarchs be monsters? What had they done?
And Shadow said, “They killed.”
She startled.
“But you will be different. You are Sen.”
“I don’t want to be a monster.”
“No. But that is a word, and it is a word that others choose. You will be what you are. At last.” And lifting his head, he roared. Jewel could feel the ground beneath her feet tremble. The wind rose, tugging at her hair, at Angel’s. It pulled at clothing, at scarves; the only thing it did not touch was Shianne’s dress. Even her hair, however, flew in its folds.
So, too, the Arianni, the Wild Hunt. They had been entirely absent until Shadow roared; they were not absent now. In the light of early dawn, they brought a harsh, blue light, carried in hands and across arms.
Jewel immediately dropped her hand to the cat’s head; because he hadn’t bothered to remove his foot, he was practically standing on top of her.
They were ready for combat.
Shadow, however, sniffed. He sniffed loudly, as if the presence of mere Arianni swords was almost an insult to his dignity.
“Shadow—”
“I did nothing,” he said, before she could follow his name with more words. “I said good-bye.”
The Arianni did not look nearly as skeptical as Jewel herself felt.
“I said it so it would be heard.”
One of the Arianni turned to Jewel. His sword was lowered, but it did not vanish, although the blades of most of the others did. Jewel did not recognize him, but she’d always had difficulty telling the Arianni apart. “You ask too much,” he said to Jewel.
It was Shianne who replied, her voice chilling instantly into something appropriate for a very bitter winter. “She did not ask it of the Lady. I asked. The boon granted was granted to me.”
Silence.
“Do you have so little faith in the White Lady? So little trust? She did not argue, did not refuse.”
“It is not the White Lady we do not trust.”
“Ah. So your lack of faith is in me?”
“You are not one of our people.”
“No. And you believe, somehow, that I am now helpless? I, who was born when the Lady was young, who was gifted and graced with the heart of her power? Do you believe that I am incapable of surviving what mortals, born without these gifts, can survive?” A flicker of fire entered the ice; it was a striking combination.
To Jewel’s surprise, it was the Arianni man who took an instinctive step back. In some fashion, it surprised her; the Arianni she knew—albeit only two—seemed to revel in combat, regardless of the possible outcomes. And she had no doubt—at all—that that was exactly what Shianne was now offering.
You think of her as mortal, Avandar said.
She is.
So, too, am I, Jewel. There was the slender edge of a smile in the words—the kind the unwary could cut themselves on. She is not what your den is. She is not what your Angel is. She will age, yes. She will die. But should she desire it? She might destroy the entirety of the Council of the Magi before that death. You cannot sense her power. You see her only through the lens of her sacrifice. You think of her as lesser than she was. So, too, does she. But you have never fully understood what she is.
Do you think she could win?
Oh, yes. But that is an unfair question. If she challenged this man, and he won, he would pay. Ariane has made clear that in the limited length of time remaining to Shianne, she is to be valued. While she lives, she is Ariane’s, and only Ariane’s.
Does he envy her?
No. Envy of Ariane is not in them. She is their heart. They will want what she wants.
But—
The Allasiani?
Jewel nodded.
They will want, he repeated, his internal voice softer, what she wants. We want and need different things, and there will often be conflicts between those desires. Did you expect that she would be different? The difference is one of scale. She made her choice, Jewel, but that desire remained. It was reflected in some fashion in those who were part of her. None of that now remains. She will destroy her ancient enemy, or she will see him destroyed. And she will not care if she must destroy the rest of the mortal world to do so. Remember that.
He then turned to Shianne, who stood, unarmed but no longer helpless. “Lady.”
Shianne inclined her head, her bearing military, her demeanor cold.
“Come. The gate.”
She turned. She did not speak to the man again; he might have been invisible for all the relevance she now granted him. But sh
e did turn to Adam, and her smile, if hardened by the expression in which it sat, was warmer. “It is almost time,” she told him gently. “To go home.”
He flushed.
Jewel almost said that Adam’s home was in the distant South, but she could not force the words from her lips, and realized, only then, that Shianne did not refer to Averalaan.
Only let him make his way home. Let him return alive and whole.
Shadow removed his paw.
Together, in a silence made tense by Shianne’s august displeasure, they made their way to the frame that Gilafas ADelios had built. The guildmaster and Cessaly did not come to make their farewells, and Jewel wondered how old Gilafas ADelios would be when he did, at last, return to mortal lands.
Shadow, however, hissed. “Do you not understand?” He uttered the sibilant word stupid three times, as if it were a charm. Celleriant was instantly offended, instantly angry. Of course, he was; they remained in the lands of the White Lady, where dignity and respect were the necessary adornments of the powerful.
Jewel placed a hand on the cat’s head, a gesture as natural, by this point, as breathing.
“There are no mortal landsssss. There never were. You were stupid. You thought what you saw was all there was to see. The world is waking.”
“Shadow, could you tell me this after we’ve left?”
He hissed.
She did not particularly care what the cat said or how he said it—not for her own sake. But she could see that Celleriant did, and she wanted Shadow to be more mindful for his. Which, she accepted, would never happen for long; it was almost miraculous that Shadow had been so well-behaved, so silent, for the time that had already passed here.
There was no hesitation, as she approached the standing arch of vine and branch and leaves, Ellariannatte, all. She did not pause, did not turn back, did not speak. Almost as if she were fleeing, she stepped firmly through that arch. As she did, she noted that Shadow’s steps matched hers; that he lifted forepaw and set it down as she lifted leg and set down foot. He had passed through the arch the first time in exactly the same way.
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