“If she’d rescued us and turned us out in the streets . . .” He shook his head. “She didn’t. Do you know why I think she let you into her forest?”
Birgide was mute, watching him.
“Because she knew how much you wanted to be there. You didn’t want it the way the magi wanted it; the forest wasn’t a thing to be dissected, to be studied. You were ready to love that forest, those trees, the awe and wonder of them. You didn’t need to name things first, to be first to present the knowledge; you didn’t need them to advance your own position in some other hierarchy.
“Birgide—she knew you would love the forest in a way that even she couldn’t.”
It was not silent in the absence of Birgide Viranyi’s words. In the distance, beyond the odd shelter of Ellariannatte, Jester could hear shouting. It had not yet devolved into screams, but he had no doubt it would. He could hear roaring—but he thought that was Night or Snow, and at this very second, it didn’t matter.
“And,” he said quietly, “you do. I didn’t know it. I didn’t understand it. I’m the cynical bastard, in case that wasn’t clear. I didn’t think you should be there, but I’m willing to trust Jay.”
“And you understand it now?”
“Yes. Better than anyone, actually.”
Her hand was trembling.
“I saw what the forest demanded of you. I saw what you were willing to sacrifice. I understood that there was a very good chance you wouldn’t survive the test the wilderness demanded you pass. And I saw that you understood it as well. You faced it, you were willing to face it, because what you wanted more than anything else was a home that you had the strength and will to protect.
“I don’t know what you call that. I call it—when I am being disgustingly earnest, as I am forced to be now—love. And Birgide, people who can love that way aren’t all that common, in my experience. People choose fear, instead.
“You didn’t take the position of Warden—if something as mundane as ‘position’ can describe it—because you loved us. We’re all aware of that. But I think it’s because, on some level, you want what we want, that you could. To me, then, you’re den.”
He waited for her response; waited for her denial. He understood that there were some people who could never, would never, admit openly a truth that others could see regardless. He was surprised at the tension he felt as he waited; it wasn’t like him, and he certainly didn’t enjoy it.
But what she said, in a low, low voice, was: “It’s not up to you.”
And he wondered as he met and held her gaze, if this was how Haval always felt: this mixture of triumph as suspicion became certainty. He hoped not.
“Yes,” he told her. “It is. Finch brought Adam home. Jay wasn’t here.”
“I am not Adam.”
“No, you’re not. But, frankly, neither am I.” He shrugged; he couldn’t choose a different gesture, because both of his hands were occupied. “I’ve seen what the rest of us haven’t seen, and oddly enough, they’ll trust me. Jay will trust me. She confirmed the House Name I didn’t theoretically have the right to offer, either.”
But Birgide knew, in the eyes of The Terafin, that the House Name did not have the weight, the import, of den. He could see that and understood that it was not just perception on his part; she allowed it. She had decided to take that risk, here, at the edge of the end of the world. “Carver,” she said, aware of what the name now meant to the den.
Jester waited, anyway.
“Carver. Merry.”
“You really did do research.”
“It wasn’t research; it’s not even a secret in the back halls. And Merry’s made no secret of—” She shook her head. “But she was never den.”
“No,” Jester agreed. “She didn’t want that, though.”
“And that makes a difference?”
“Yes. The only person she cares about is Carver. She doesn’t mind the rest of us—I think she actually likes Finch and Teller—but we’re her job. Carver is different.”
“And the rest of you?”
“Well, we don’t want her the way Carver does.” Jester shrugged again. “And because she’s part of Carver’s life, we keep an eye out for her. But she’s ATerafin Household Staff, and she’s proud of that—and being den would destroy the life she’s built.”
Her eyes were red, would remain red, but her skin no longer resembled a living tree when seen in cross-section. And her hand, for all that her eyes were, and would remain, unnatural, was callused. Hells, it was probably dirty—but it was, conversely, a clean dirt, and Jester could live with that.
“Welcome home,” he said, grinning. “It’s not much, and it’ll probably make you even more shocked that I’ve survived it all these years.”
She said nothing. But he understood this nothing, as well; she had no words for it. He wasn’t debriefing; she didn’t have to come up with words for it. But she turned as Snow landed, snorting impatiently.
“They are coming,” he snarled, his anger—and the height of his fur—meant for neither of the people he addressed. “Are you ready?”
Birgide closed her eyes, inhaled, and nodded, her face losing its tension. “Yes,” she said, when she opened her eyes. “Yes, Snow. I am finally ready.”
8th day of Lattan, 428 A.A.
Scavonne Manse, Averalaan
Muriel A’Scavonne almost regretted following Colm Sanders’ advice. Stacia had been in a truly terrible mood throughout dinner, and it had descended into near-tantrum when she realized her mother would not be moved. If Muriel often felt abandoned to her fear and despair by her husband, he was at least a pillar of support when it came to her decisions regarding the discipline of her daughter. If Muriel said her daughter was not allowed to traverse the Common for the festival of lights, he acquiesced.
Stacia, however, did not. When it became clear that pleas would not avail her of the necessary permission, she turned to shouting and demands. They went every year. Why were they not allowed to go now?
Colm Sanders had not been forthcoming; he had made clear that the near-disaster with the riding lessons would pale in comparison should Stacia and her parents make their customary trek to watch the magi at play among the heights of the Ellariannatte. Muriel had not revealed to her husband that it was Colm Sanders who had been behind her decision. Had she, they would already be in the Common. Her husband did not take the advice of a low-born soldier, and he would be offended and suspicious if he discovered that his wife had done exactly that.
Stacia, however, understood this game. While she was bitterly resentful of Mr. Sanders, she nonetheless failed to mention his existence where her father could hear it. The appearance of an extra servant was not his problem. Nor was the oversight of that servant.
He did not enjoy the ruckus that Stacia caused and retreated to his smoking room with a pipe. Only when he was well away from the table and the shouting itself did Stacia wheel in rage, and storm from the main rooms, which were appropriate for a young lady of her station, to the back rooms, which were not.
Normally, Muriel sent Barryl to watch over her. Tonight, however, she did not. Stacia was disappointed, heartbroken and enraged; Muriel was worried. Deeply worried.
“Open the door!” Stacia shouted.
The door to Mr. Sanders’ room remained closed.
Muriel, however, did not scream, rage, or lift her voice. She knocked.
She was surprised when he opened the door to her wearing armor and his swords. His expression was grim, that grimness emphasized by the scars he bore. But he offered Muriel an awkward bow and stepped out of the doorframe to allow her to enter.
Stacia stormed in on her mother’s heels, her hands fists, her eyes bright with both tears and emotion.
Colm Sanders looked down his nose, his eyes narrowed. Stacia kicked him.
“That’s enough of that,” he said
.
“Why did you tell her that we can’t go?”
“Because, Stacy, we can’t. You and I will probably survive, even if we’re in the Common. But neither of us will be awake. If you go, your mother at least will accompany you. Who will watch her? Who will protect her when we sleep?”
This was the heart of Muriel’s fear. Colm Sanders expected that both he and Stacia would, once again, be drawn into the world of the dreamers. He had not said as much to her. He was willing, however, to say this to her daughter. It was why, in the end, she had followed.
“She has guards!”
“And how long would those guards last when faced with Darranatos? How long did they last during the victory parade?”
Stacia opened her mouth, but words had, for the moment, deserted her.
They deserted Muriel now for entirely different reasons, and he knew. “Go upstairs,” he told Stacia. “Go to bed.”
“But—”
“Can you not hear her?”
“You don’t let me listen!”
“I thought we might have longer. We don’t. Go upstairs.”
Stacia trembled in front of this old soldier. “If we’re going to be sleeping anyway, why are you wearing that armor?”
“Habit.”
“Liar.”
“Stacia!”
They both turned to look at Muriel. She could see that her daughter was determined. She could see, as well, that her daughter was afraid. But Stacia’s eyes widened; Mr. Sanders caught her as her knees buckled. He grimaced. “Can you have her carried to her room? I would take her—but I won’t make it, either.”
“If you can wake yourself—”
“I will not be able to wake myself now. Even if Stacy was capable of it, she wouldn’t be able to, either. This is why we are here. This is why we sleep.”
She started to speak; she was not certain what she might have said. There was shouting, now, in the back halls; voices were now raised in something approaching panic. She opened the door and stepped into the halls, and long years of training brought that noise to a close—but not the panic. That, Muriel could clearly see.
“What,” she said, grabbing one of the pages, “has happened? Look at me. Look at me and tell me what you’ve heard.”
“It’s—the Common. In the Common—Moorelas’ statue is gone—and something else is growing up beneath it. The streets are breaking. People are—”
“Who told you this?”
“Marie—she was there, and she’s run back. It’s—” He stopped. Muriel let her hands fall away. She turned to the half-open door.
“What is this?” she asked of Colm Sanders.
“We don’t know for certain.”
“What do you think it is?”
He closed his eyes, Stacy in his arms. “The Sleepers,” he finally said, “are waking.”
She was frozen; she could not find humor or derision or doubt. There was nothing, now, to stand on. She bowed her head for one long moment, trying to order her thoughts, her fears. “. . . I will go to my husband,” she finally said.
“Stacy—”
“Keep her here. Keep her here, and wherever it is your dreams take you—guard her, protect her. Bring her back to me.”
The High Wilderness
Jewel felt the cold envelop her the moment both of her feet were on the other side of the portal that Adam and Gilafas had built. Although she’d taken care to find her heavy mittens, she did not don them; instead, she dropped a hand to Shadow’s head. It was, as the cat always was, warm, and the contact protected her from the bite of chill wind. She leaned into the great, gray cat.
Adam felt the cold instantly; she could see a tremble set up shop in his body. She looked at Shadow and at the Winter King.
Shadow said, “He can carry Adam.” As if he could read her mind. But . . . he had always been able to do that.
The Winter King was not, to Jewel’s surprise, annoyed. As if Shadow’s snippy words conveyed Jewel’s actual command—although she hadn’t spoken a word—he knelt by Adam’s feet, positioning his head with care so that he did not knock the Voyani youth into the flattened snow.
Adam clambered onto his back instantly; where the Winter King was, there was warmth. Jewel believed privately that the Winter King could follow a path through the deepest of water, and those he carried wouldn’t drown.
Of course not.
But to Jewel’s surprise, the Winter King did not rise when Adam was fully seated; he remained kneeling. He was not waiting for Jewel.
No, he was waiting for . . . Shianne.
Breath hung in the air like personal clouds, but Jewel’s drifted because she almost forgot to breathe. The Winter King had refused, any time she asked, to carry Shianne. She had given up asking.
Shianne looked, not to the Winter King, but to Jewel herself. Of course, she did. Jewel’s first instinct was to offer a helpless shrug, but she bit that back as unprofitable, and instead said, “Accept what he offers.”
“It is offered?”
Jewel nodded. “If it were up to me, he would have carried you every step of the way from the moment you first joined us.”
“You do not understand why he would not.” This seemed to amuse Shianne, and Jewel was content to see some glimmer of an expression other than despair upon her face.
“No.”
“And you do not understand what has changed?” Shianne had turned her attention to the great stag, considering him as if she, in turn had some share of his former reluctance.
“You had a baby.”
“Yes, Matriarch. I delivered the child who was with me for so long, I almost feel empty. I lived for, I existed for, the moment in which all of my choices, all of my sacrifices, would redeem me in the eyes of the White Lady.” She bowed her head for one long moment. Lifted it again. “And redemption also . . . leaves one empty.”
“You could go back—”
“She has said she will wake my sisters. You will see them, if we survive. You will see what we once were when the world was new, and the gods were our companions.”
Shianne would not be, would never again be, one of them.
But it was not pity that moved the Winter King; pity, like its better cousin, compassion, was so foreign to him he could not speak the language, could only barely understand it, and always from a condescending distance. Pity, Jewel thought, was likewise not a language that Shianne understood. These two, Winter King and Shianne herself, were of a kind; what they loved, what they devoted themselves to, was the same.
And yet, they were with her. They would be with her until Ariane came to claim them. Or until she herself died.
Shianne mounted the Winter King, settling in behind Adam. She draped one arm around the young man’s waist. Even now, the baby delivered safely, her quest at last completed, she was gentle with Adam, and Jewel was certain that she would defend him in the face of the most dangerous of attackers.
Perhaps it was not for Jewel’s sake she had chosen to leave the White Lady, but for Adam’s. And perhaps Jewel would never know. She did not understand the Winter King, did not understand Shianne, did not understand the White Lady. At the moment, that understanding was irrelevant.
Across a field covered in red, red snow, she turned, almost unerring, in the direction they had come. Time was no longer held in abeyance, and time had never been on her side.
* * *
• • •
It did not occur to Jewel that the absence of the guildmaster would cause difficulty. She had been so preoccupied with the fate of the infant that she had not considered the situation pragmatically. Nor had Avandar offered his usual advice.
One did not, even in the time when the Cities of Man were at the height of their power, command an Artisan. It startled Jewel to realize that Avandar considered Gilafas an Artisan of old. Given that he h
ad, in the end, created the door through which she had entered the Hidden Court, the change in attitude made sense. It was a bitter sense.
Angel signed; she grimaced in response. He understood what she didn’t even lift hands to say and winced. There was, however, no doubt in him.
Had there ever been?
Winter King.
Jewel.
Can you retrace our steps?
Yes. I am not certain that is wise, however.
Why not?
It is the wilderness, Jewel, and blood has been shed here. Lives have been lost, and lives offered. The wilderness is not all of one thing, and it does not remain all of one thing. The shape of the unclaimed wilderness bows to the whims and demands of those who traverse it. Where that will is strong enough, the impression lingers, and it can linger for a long, long time.
Jewel nodded. She turned to Terrick, lifted a hand, and lowered it again, chagrined. “The Winter King informs me that the lands beyond this battlefield may not resemble the lands we passed through to arrive at it.”
Angel signed; Jewel signed back. She then climbed up on Shadow’s back far less gracefully than Shianne had on the Winter King’s. Shadow complained but adjusted his wings enough that mounting wasn’t difficult. “I’m not him,” the cat growled. “I might drop you.”
Terrick and Shianne stiffened; Angel and Adam did not. Jewel thumped the gray cat between the ears as she adjusted her seat.
* * *
• • •
To Terrick, Angel said, “He won’t hurt her.”
“Why are you so certain? If I understand what has happened in the past, he has.”
“He was being controlled.”
“By what?”
“Something as powerful as the White Lady. He won’t admit it,” Angel added quietly. “All three cats have a ferocious sense of the importance of their own dignity.”
“You wouldn’t know it.”
Angel chuckled. “We should ask the Winter King to take these.” He indicated the packs that they now carried. Terrick had been hesitant about accepting the provisions of the White Lady, but they hadn’t exactly been offered. Angel, however, appreciated the sharp decrease in weight. It would be far easier to travel significant distances.
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