“They’re coming,” she told him, eyes narrowed.
He nodded. The first of the evacuees were making their way toward where Finch now stood.
8th day of Lattan, 428 A.A.
The Araven Manse, Averalaan
There were perhaps a handful of exhausted servants that remained asleep while the world was transformed; Hectore, not being a servant, was not one of them. Nor was his wife. Even his grandchildren, all of whom he had gathered beneath his large, expensive roof, were awake. They were not precisely quiet, but they were awake.
They had arrived the day before; it was his grandson’s birthday. His entire family was with him. It had been Andrei’s suggestion that they celebrate it in grand style—thus forcing his children and their children to come to the manse; his suggestion that it be an evening party, with the attendant exhaustion which would prevent that family from leaving for their own scattered homes, meant they would be confined to the one space Andrei felt would guarantee their safety. The seventh of Lattan had passed into the very early hours of the eighth.
Nadianne was dressed and likewise awake. She watched him patiently while he spent some time with the more fractious grandchildren, but only with half an eye; most of her attention was given—as was the older children’s and their increasingly frightened parents—to the windows. From the safety of the manse, they watched the rise of a dark spire; they watched the tower rise beneath it. The bulk of what Hectore assumed was the rest of the building was obscured by the more densely packed architecture of the city itself.
His wife turned toward him as he joined her. “Are you certain,” she asked, voice as soft as she could make it, “that this is where you must be?”
“No,” was his frank reply.
“Andrei is out there?”
He nodded.
“Hectore—”
“He cheated,” Hectore replied, before she could ask the question that obviously hovered behind her slightly parted lips. “He asked.”
“Asked?”
“He said he had never truly asked a boon or favor from me, in all of the years he has otherwise tolerated my company. And he begged one boon of tonight.”
“That you remain in Araven.”
“That I remain in Araven.”
“I confess surprise that you granted it.”
“I said no,” was Hectore’s genial response.
His wife waited patiently for the explanation that was certain to follow, and he did not even consider keeping her in suspense. “He then informed me that our survival was essential to his own. He considered the gravest threat to his safety—to his existence—to be our deaths.”
“Your death,” she countered.
“No, Nadianne, our deaths. Our home is his home. It has been his home for the entirety of our marriage; it was his home before that. But home, to me, is part of life; what, then, does home mean if the lives of my family are lost?”
She was not given to being demonstrative in public, but nonetheless now leaned into his side, beneath the weight of the arm he slid around her shoulders. She was cold; he could feel her tremble.
“What will happen?” she asked.
“The Sleepers,” he said, “will wake.”
8th day of Lattan, 428 A.A.
The Common
Around the base of a building that seemed all of one piece of stone, the Ellariannatte grew. If Jester had thought Birgide’s work done, he repented; he even felt a hint of guilt. The trees continued their magnificent, sudden growth at Birgide’s unspoken command. He lost sight of the Common as it became a forest of trees in full growth, leaves in full bloom. The wind’s rustle was loud above his head—above all their heads—and Jester thought he could almost make out words in the sound.
He glanced at Birgide; her chin was tilted up, her throat exposed, as if the words he could almost hear were the voices of a crowd, to her. This did not surprise him; he had come to understand, on some level, what Warden meant. But the tears were almost a shock.
“They’ll die,” she whispered. “They’ll be destroyed. And they’ll be destroyed in defense of people I don’t know. I . . . do not like people. I don’t trust them. But the forest has always been like salvation to me.”
He understood then.
“It’s what she wants,” Birgide continued. “It’s what she wants of the forest. That it be harbor and shelter.”
And it wasn’t, precisely, what Birgide wanted.
“You’re not betraying them,” Jester said quietly, speaking to the heart of her pain.
She did not answer.
“They aren’t children. They have their own thoughts, their own desires. You aren’t deluding them or lying to them—you are commanding them. It’s what Duvari does. It’s what I think Haval used to do. It’s what the Kings do every time they declare war.”
“It’s different with people.”
“How? You think every member of the army is there freely and happily because of their spotless loyalty?”
“It’s different with the Astari.”
He didn’t argue that. He knew he shouldn’t be arguing at all. Not now, and not so close to the building. To Jester’s eye what was a grand, large cathedral of a building had stopped its upward climb. He could see fully exposed—but closed—doors; could see the wide, gleaming stairs that led to them. He could see the width of the building itself, and the complicated carvings that adorned the pillars between which the doors were nestled. Above them the tower stood.
There were no visible bells, no obvious windows; it was a pillar of perfect stone, untouched by the roots of the Ellariannatte, unblemished, undamaged. It suggested gods and their glory, suggested myths, legends; everyday street stories did not have the gravitas to do likewise.
And yet, it was the street stories to which Jester’s thoughts turned.
When the Sleepers wake.
He could not now remember the old rhyme, although he remembered the jumping game to which it was set. But he thought that it presaged the end of the world.
“It won’t be enough,” she whispered. “I should have come sooner. I should have started earlier. It won’t be enough.”
“You sound a lot like Jay,” he replied. “Stupid.” This didn’t even annoy her, and he changed his approach. “Some lives,” he told her, “are better than none. Whatever we can save, we must save.”
“You don’t like people, either.”
“I don’t like patricians. It’s not the same. And Duvari,” he added, as she opened her mouth. “I don’t like him, either. But people? I am one. Not a great one, as it happens. Not impressive. Not particularly talented. Not much of anything. So, absent money and House Name, the people we’re rescuing here? More like me than the patricians. That’s enough, for me.
“Birgide—one life is better than none. And you are going to save a lot more lives than that tonight.” He did not say, did not add, that she could plant more trees; although this was true, one did not tell a grieving parent that they could have more children.
“It’s not enough.”
The neutrality of her voice caught him before he loosed more words. This time, there was no guilt in it.
“We need to transform enough of this city; we need to spread the lines of Jewel’s active dominion. We’ll catch people who were unfortunate enough to live too close to the Common—but I need more time.”
Cursing, Jester looked up. Cupping both of his hands to bracket his mouth, he shouted, “Snow!”
* * *
• • •
The cathedral doors began to roll open.
Chapter Fifteen
The High Wilderness
JEWEL CALLED A HALT to the trek through darkened forest. The air was winter air, although there was very little evidence of snow. The light that filtered through to the forest floor was not sun’s light; she could not tell how
long they had been traveling. The Winter King said he was not lost, and she believed him—but time had passed, was passing. She wondered, then, if waiting in the Hidden Court would have been the better choice, in the end; if she gained a handful of hours leaving before Ariane could and did, what use were they if she was trapped here, meandering across a landscape that had literally lengthened in the time she’d been gone?
But . . . she would not have found Rath. She understood this: she would not have found Rath. She asked Rath, while she rode, about his death. He knew he was not alive, and the spare facts of death did not seem to disturb him; he accepted what he could not change.
He told her of his meeting with Evayne; told her of the ring that he had accepted from Kallandras; told her of the choice he had made. Angel walked by the Winter King’s side. Of the den, Angel was the only one who had come to her after she had left Rath’s place, but he’d heard the old stories. He knew how the rest of the den had come together. And he’d met Rath because Rath continued to train the den; he just hadn’t wanted to live with them.
“I did not want you to die. And I had come to understand that we did, indeed, face demons; that the actions I took—was taking—at the behest of Sigurne Mellifas, would inevitably be discovered. I am not a man who is fond of large amounts of company, and your den had become quite a . . . crowd. But that is not why I asked you to leave. I thought—” he broke off.
Angel signed briefly, and Jewel did not then twist in her seat in an attempt to see Rath’s expression. He surprised her. He continued.
“I thought that you would be safe if you were quit of me. You are Terafin now?”
“I am The Terafin.”
“That was not my intent when I sent you to my sister.”
“No. It wasn’t her intent when she adopted me, either. But the people she’d groomed to succeed her were assassinated. I survived. And I think—I think she understood, viscerally, that I would always survive. She understood what I wanted, what the den wanted. In the end, she wanted me to take the House.”
“And you?”
Silence. Breath. “I wanted her to be at peace. I did not want the House.”
“You are The Terafin.”
“Yes. Because I promised her that I would take the House and rule it. I don’t think she would have asked it,” she continued, her voice softening, “if not for the demons. The demons I could see. The magics I could detect. It was because I was seer-born.”
“And the war for the House?”
“There was no war. We were prepared for the infighting,” she added. “But . . .” she shrugged. “Demons. Magic. Gods. In the end, the House Council agreed with Amarais: they believed I would survive an apocalypse—and that the best chance that Terafin would survive rested with me.”
“Jewel—”
“I don’t want it,” she whispered. “I’m—I don’t want it.”
“What do you see?”
She shook her head. She felt his arms tighten around her; felt his chin as he rested it atop her head. “I’ll take you. I’ll take you back to—to where you should be.”
“Yes,” he said softly “You will. But not yet, Jewel.”
“Not exactly yet. I’m not sure how, from here.”
“And you will be sure when you are home?”
Silence.
He chuckled. “I’m unwilling to face my sister—I told you, I’m a coward. But let me carry, instead, the news of your triumph, and I will have the courage to approach her: I will have at least something she wants.”
“She might not be there.”
“She will.”
“And I might not triumph.”
“Jewel, you already have. You have done more than she herself could have done. Should you die in the face of the Sleepers, you will still have done more. One failure does not destroy past success.”
“It does,” she told him. “It renders success meaningless. Where are we going now?” She frowned. She had, unconsciously, directed Shadow, and Shadow, without complaint, had followed the unspoken, unintentional orders she had given. He did not fly, did not run, did not appear to notice something as trifling as scenery. But he did not call Rath stupid and did not complain about his presence.
“No,” the cat growled. “He is not stupid.”
Of course not. She was. She exhaled. “Let me get down for a minute.”
Shadow hissed. It was petulant.
Jewel dismounted slowly, planted both feet as firmly on the ground as she could, and grimaced. She lifted her hands, but they were shaking.
Angel was by her side—not so close as to crowd, but close enough to leave no doubt that he was right here, if needed. And she did need that. She understood that she could ask nothing of him—there was no burden he could relieve her of. But that almost didn’t matter. What she needed now was the reminder of what home meant. Angel signed.
Jewel folded her arms at the elbow and reached into her own chest.
8th day of Lattan, 428 A.A.
The Order of Knowledge, Averalaan Aramarelas
The wind swept across the silent men and women who stood ready at the heights of the tallest tower the Order of Knowledge boasted. They had been told to gather and wait. Their orders had come from Meralonne APhaniel; permission to stand at these heights had come from the guildmaster. Both Sigurne and Meralonne were absent, but the wind told them that one, at least, was now returning.
Gyrrick stepped forward before Meralonne could be seen, conveyed by the turbulent air. From this height, they could see the Common; they could no longer see the statue of Moorelas. It had been toppled or destroyed—they could not tell which—by the rise of a building that rivaled Avantari in size. Around that building, Ellariannatte grew, and in numbers. The magi were familiar with the position and the number of those trees; they were the perch from which they created displays of colored light and illusion on the eighth day of Lattan, the longest day of the year.
Today, although day had not yet dawned, and no welcome light had crested the horizon.
Planning and preparation for such a celebration had, of course, been done—but the hours between now and then stretched out into infinity. The warrior-magi that Meralonne had trained had seen battle, a battlefield, in the Dominion of Annagar. And before that, they had seen battle rage across the Common. In both cases, they had been pointed, like weapons, toward the Kialli and the demonic kin who served them.
Meralonne appeared in a gust of wind that threatened to rip the flags off their masts. His eyes were silver, not steel, but steel ran through them as he looked down upon the warrior-magi he had risked the guildmaster’s wrath to train.
They bowed to him in perfect unison and rose at his command in the same fashion; they could feel his words as if words themselves had a physical component; as if he were bard-born.
He waited. The wind that supported him midair began to reach for their armor, their hair; they felt its chill fingers across their upturned faces, their exposed cheeks. But it was warm when compared to his eyes, and Gyrrick wondered, distantly, if he had ever truly known the man he had chosen to follow.
“You were trained for this day,” Meralonne told them, without preamble. “You were honed in the lands of the South, but it is this fight that you were meant for.”
They did not understand, but did not ask.
“You have seen the dark spire rise; you have seen Moorelas’ Sanctum breached, and the statue itself finally fail. Do you understand what comes?”
Gyrrick found his voice first. “The Sleepers.”
“Yes. The Three who slept are waking now. They will step into the streets of this city—your city—from the depths of that cathedral. It was the place at which they failed in their charge. Do you understand?”
Gyrrick nodded. There was no person present who had not heard the story of Moorelas, offered in song, in legend, in children�
�s game.
“The god we do not name has returned. He gathers his forces in the distant North. If the Sleepers have any hope of redemption, it lies, in the end, with the enemy they failed to destroy. They were not gods,” he added, his voice softer. “But they were kin to gods.”
“Could they have destroyed him?”
“With Moorelas’ help, yes.” He shook his head, his lips curving in a way that implied pain. “It is the past. You cannot walk it. But they have woken, and it is into these streets that they will first walk. As the gods did, they alter the land their feet touch, until that land is more pleasing to them.
“And this land, this small, mortal city, will not please them.”
“If they could stand against a god and survive, what do you expect of us?”
“I expect you to stand—for a short time—against them.”
Silence.
“And, Gyrrick, against me.”
The silence grew weighty.
It was, again, Gyrrick who broke it, carrying the weight of every member of this force that Meralonne had taught. “You? Why you?”
“You have long understood that I am not like the other magi,” Meralonne replied, turning to look toward the heart of the Common. “When the gods were bound by the covenant to which they agreed, they left these lands and the wilderness slept without the divine to invoke it, to warp it, to create with it.
“So, too, the firstborn—who could not leave, as the gods had chosen to leave. But they could be sequestered in small pockets, in hidden courts. They were. In some fashion, they were sleeping, just as the Sleepers were.”
His smile, when he turned it upon them again, could not be described; Gyrrick did not think he could even make the attempt. There was Winter in that smile, ice, steel; there was power in it, but sorrow and weariness as well, as if the one must come inevitably from the other.
“I have been sleeping,” Meralonne continued. “But not in a fashion that is possible for you and your kin; I was not trapped, as my brethren were trapped. I could—and did—wander these mortal lands. I could watch your kind as they crawled out of the wreckage caused by mine; I could watch your attempts to build, and build again, when what was built first inevitably failed.
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