Jewel heard two things as they raised swords and brought them down, angled as if to slice: The cracking, sudden and unmistakable, of living timber, and the screams of Birgide Viranyi.
The swords did not stop with that first blow, but the edges of those blades seemed to extend far beyond their visible reach; more trees shattered, and at the far side of what she could only call a palace, the trees began to wither.
She understood, then, why the Sleepers had not yet taken to air. Understood as she watched that somehow the Ellariannatte were rooted in a world, in a wilderness, that did not yet belong to the Sleepers. And those roots were being poisoned, being destroyed; what remained would be theirs; they could make of it what they desired, because they could then command every part of the wilderness their voices could reach, and the wilderness would obey.
It was happening, now. All of the fighting she had seen, all of the dead, all of the civilians who had managed, against increasingly dire odds, to make their escape, became all but irrelevant. The trees died, and as they did, the heralds stepped forward, at last, to stand in the shadows cast by the lords they served.
Before, she had thought the Sleepers beautiful. She had thought them powerful. She understood, at the moment they stood before their heralds, that they had merely been waiting. The harptalons, the dragon—they weren’t even an attack; they were a diversion, a way of passing time.
She saw the Sleepers share a glance, as if they were of one mind; the three on the ground then began, very slowly, to rise. The air now carried them, and they turned their attention to Calliastra. To Andrei. And to the whole of the city, where the trees trembled beneath them.
Those trees would wither. They would die. Or they would shatter.
There would be no escape left to the people who still fought, or fled, on the ground. The Sleepers would make the lands upon which the city itself stood theirs, and nothing would escape.
The question she had asked, the question she had torn out her heart to ask was gone, forgotten; it tumbled into names and places and history and events—the whole weave and weft of Jewel’s life. Everything that had ever mattered to her. Everything she had both hated and loved. There was no place for any of it in the wilderness the Sleepers had once ruled and would now rule when the trees at last failed.
And they were failing, she thought. Failing, and falling, because the Sleepers were almost gods, and no actual gods were present. Just the daughter of the god they did not name, and against the three—or the four, for one herald was still absent—she would not stand for long. Not here, and not now, because Calliastra did not build home or rulership in the way the ancient Arianni did and could.
She didn’t question how she knew this; had no need to question. Neither Calliastra nor Andrei could do what must be done—must be done now—if Jewel and all the mortals in Averalaan were to ever have a home again.
She thought of Taverson’s as she rode.
She thought of Terafin. Of the thirty-fifth, of the twenty-fifth. Of the hidden city, whose ancient fate hinted at the fate of Averalaan itself. She could not see the trees that lined the path Shadow now flew down, but she felt them regardless. They were not her trees; this was not her land. But they, too, were echoes of that home, and they spoke of it, sharpening resolve and fear simultaneously. They began to glow; she saw that. It was a faint, pale light, easily lost in the light of the magics that were, cupped in the palm of her hands, being summoned.
It was also a familiar light. Perhaps, had she not held her figurative heart in her hands, it would have taken longer for her to recognize it, but she did hold it, and the recognition was instant. It was the light of butterfly wings, first seen in a dream that had almost killed her, absent the forms of the butterflies themselves.
She knew that she was not sleeping now. Was not dreaming. The Wardens were no longer captors, no longer jailers. And yet, she thought, the entirety of the world she had lived in since she’d wakened the first time had been very like a dream, a conscious exertion of waking thought over a landscape that was no longer quite reality.
She could not, for a moment, remember how she’d woken that first time. Could remember only that when she had, the world—the physical world—in which she’d been sleeping had changed utterly and irrevocably. The Terafin’s personal chambers had become different, other—they could be reached from the manse, but were no longer a part of it. The library still contained books, but it had no longer been the library in which The Terafin had done the most personal, the most private, of her work.
And the skies above those books had been the same amethyst that now overhung her city. She had not deliberately made those changes; that had never been her intent. She therefore understood the risk inherent in what she now did:
She took the dreaming in both of her hands, understood that in some fashion it was part of the wilderness, and chose—intentionally, willfully, deliberately—to wake. To wake into the world that she knew. To open eyes in her own home.
Her home was the city of Averalaan. It was the city beneath the amethyst skies. It was the city in which trees were, even now, being felled by those who were no part of it. The skies were littered with predators, and the streets as well, and she could see the host of the Arianni clashing with the Kings at the edge of the line of land that defined the bay. Those Kings were armed with weapons that, like the light of the metallic trees, suggested the living that they ruled; more than that she did not see. It wasn’t necessary. What the Kings held, they would hold until the moment the city itself fell.
That moment was coming, was almost upon them all as the Sleepers commanded the air, and the air answered; she could see the earth rise up beneath them, like pillars to the gods of the sky, and she remembered the pillars in the ancient, deserted halls that had once housed the White Lady and . . . her sisters.
That land, the land upon which the palace stood, was theirs; had been theirs since the moment of their waking; it was not the land in which the Ellariannatte grew. But the land into which they now walked was not theirs, not yet.
It was hers. It was hers by birth. It was home.
Shadow flew clear of the trees, the blue, metallic trees that had made a path she could follow, into the clear, deep skies of amethyst, and beneath her feet she could at last see what had been made of that city, and what would be made of it. She held the crystal in her hands, all but forgotten, and if she gazed into its depths, she was not aware of it. She didn’t require the seer’s heart to see what was happening, and what needed to happen in response.
She didn’t need it to feel the intensity of rage, of belonging, of ownership; didn’t need it to feel the visceral urge to protect.
“Easy, easy Jewel,” Rath shouted in her ear. He had to shout; she might not have heard him, otherwise. “You don’t use an army where a magisterian will do.”
His words made a jumble of sense, which is to say, very little at all; the words had meaning individually but would not resolve into something she could use. But they wound their way through the chaos of anger and fear and made themselves heard and felt.
Shadow said, “There are only armies here.” There was no whine in his voice. “What she does, she cannot do timidly, or she cannot do it at all.”
And Rath said, “She must, Eldest. She must, or what she is left with will not be what she desires. What we protect is fragile, in the end; it is worthy of protection, but it breaks far more easily than what we must protect it from.” His arms tightened around Jewel. “But she has prepared for this in ways that she does not fully understand.
“She can do what must be done.”
* * *
• • •
Birgide collapsed forward, as if the invisible chains by which she had willingly been bound had been cut or smashed to pieces. Jester, who still held her hand, caught her awkwardly, teetering as he tried to balance her weight, and his own, with one free arm and one entangled on
e. She was surprisingly heavy when completely unconscious, which made retreat from this particular grove cumbersome in the extreme. He had expected to find himself within Jay’s forest—which is absolutely where he intended to flee. He did not, however. Yards—perhaps less—from the shattered trunks of Ellariannatte, he could see the now unimpeded view of a building that he hated on sight. It had risen from the depths of the undercity, the hidden city, and had been transformed in its ascension; it was the very pinnacle of wealth, of untouchable power.
Jester had hated the patriciate, even when he had become one of their unofficial number. There was no compromise in this; he hadn’t much liked himself, either before or after. Hadn’t, in truth, trusted himself with anything at all but the den. He could not hate this building; could not hate the Sleepers. It was like hating mountains. Like hating life. Come to think of it, he’d managed that before.
He did not hate it now.
“Birgide,” he said, lips pressed to her ear. “Birgide. We have to move.”
She did not respond at all. He heard the crack of timber, near now; saw the tree closest to him tilt. He felt the ground beneath his feet—roots all—shudder. He did not, could not, feel fear. This tree might fall, but Birgide was beyond the pain of its loss for now, and he was certain—as he had only ever been in Jay’s presence—that it would not fall on them.
“Birgide, she’s back,” he told the unconscious Warden.
As the tree line peeled away, the full majesty of the building that had replaced a third of the Common was revealed. And Jester looked at it, looked up at it, and felt . . . nothing. No awe. No surprise. It was . . . a building. In the sky he could see six figures; the dragon was no longer above them, its breath freezing—and shattering—the same trees that stood as living shields.
But they hung for a moment, suspended, as if they were a painting and not reality. He could feel the breeze become wind, but the wind did not howl. It seemed, to Jester, to sing.
He turned although it was awkward. Turned to see that he had been wrong; the sky was much wider than his field of view. Above the palace, there were six. But in the skies to the west, he could see new figures approaching. And he could hear, in case his vision was not good enough, the roaring of very annoyed cats.
He could almost hear their words. They had missed something. People were having fun without them. He had never liked the cats, but he had never hated them, and his lips moved in a grin that was instinctive.
Now he understood why Birgide had collapsed. If she was Warden, the forest was her responsibility—but it was not hers.
It was Jay’s.
And Jay was home. He stopped struggling with Birgide’s weight then. Stopped struggling at all. Jay was home and the city itself, while damaged, had not been destroyed, and he believed, viscerally, that it would not be destroyed.
* * *
• • •
Haval felt the wind change. The forest force that accompanied him—and that obeyed him—stiffened simultaneously, although admittedly in the case of the silver-and-gold guards, it was more subtle. They did not cry out, did not shout her name, did not abandon him as they waited for her orders, but he felt the change in them.
He was grateful for it. He called the fire—the small leaves that burned upon command, and only then; they had flocked to him as if they were birds, and he had made use of the flame against the wings of the aerial attackers, until they had no choice but to close on the ground.
He was not a romantic man; he did not see, in their enemies, grandeur or myth. Nor did he feel elevated or empowered by the weapons at hand. They were not the weapons of his distant youth; not the weapons of his prime. But weapons were weapons; one had to understand them before they could be put to use, and one could not hesitate to use them when necessary.
He was slightly sentimental, however. He knew his wife would be within her home, and he knew that she would leave it only when it was safe to do so. He had taken basic precautions, but Hannerle was not the den; he could only do so much. And he could not afford to visit yet; could not afford to see the results of those precautions. He was not Jewel, not Finch, not any of the den. He could wait.
* * *
• • •
Jewel commanded the air, and it came at her call, catching Avandar, Terrick, and Angel. Celleriant was with Kallandras, and Jewel knew that the bard could summon—had already summoned—wind of his own. She had given him permission to do just that, in any land that she ruled, and could not imagine a time when she might withdraw that permission.
The Winter King kept Shianne and Adam safe. Safe and close.
Night and Snow were sulking—loudly—as if this was simple play. And it might have been, had she not been able to clearly see the huge swathes of wreckage in the hundred holdings. The Isle had come under desultory attack, but that was not her concern, although the seat of her power was on the Isle.
She saw small fires gather in one or two locations; saw the dragon, slowed by that fire, that now stood and fought in a clearing that had not existed in the streets before its arrival; she saw the distant gleam of weapons that should have been invisible at this distance and knew that it was her Chosen who faced the creature. She trusted them. She had trusted them since the day she had arrived at the front gates with Arann. She had trusted them even though they served Amarais, not her; that they were sworn to that service; that they would die in it, even if that service required them to turn on the den.
And now they were hers. As much hers as the den. As much hers as Terafin. They fought with the weapons she had granted them. They fought with the ferocity, the dedication, of the Terafin Chosen. They had chosen to take on the dragon because of who they were, and Jewel believed in them utterly.
She heard the dragon roar; saw its breath.
Without thought, she spoke to the wind, and the wind replied in kind, and Terrick flew—uncomfortably—toward that dragon. But Angel, she kept by her side.
The trees in the city were new, yes. Some had been broken and some destroyed. She said to Shadow, “The spire!”
“It is not yours,” Shadow hissed.
Jewel repeated the command.
* * *
• • •
On the ground, the Chosen saw her pass overhead. They saw the shadow of her cat, and they heard her voice as if it were thunder. Except for one; he heard it as if it were home. He did not look up; instead, he said, “The Terafin has returned to the city!” His voice was a shout. No, it was a roar, as loud in all ways as the dragon’s.
Arrendas did look up as she passed; he did not salute. Could not offer her more respect than this: he struck out at the dragon’s side, and his blade pierced the scales that had given them so much trouble.
The sky’s deep amethyst faded into a color that might, at dawn or dusk, be almost natural. The shadows above their heads deepened and lengthened as the whole of the clearing made by destruction and gilded by death became ringed with Ellariannatte, their branches long and high.
Chapter Twenty
ANGEL REMAINED BY JAY’S side.
He did not move of his own accord; he had no control over the wind. He did not look down, he looked across.
She shouted a name, and the wind carried it across a battlefield made of sky and wings and distant swords.
“Why me?” came the disgruntled reply, as a winged predator the color of new snow flew toward Angel. “Why not him?”
The cats could preen, fly, and fight at the same time, and Night did. Angel, however, was deposited onto Snow’s back.
“Where is your sword?” Snow demanded. “Why aren’t you carrying it?”
Because he was carrying leaves. He did not say this; instead, he tucked the leaves in his cold hands away because the cat was probably right. “I didn’t train in mounted combat,” he said, in his own defense. It was not a defense that stood up to the cats, or perhaps, not one they not
iced. Snow was perfectly willing to share his opinion of Angel as he headed toward the largest wings in the sky at present.
Calliastra’s.
Every instinct Angel had ever developed told him that the sky was not the place to be. But he was on Snow’s back, and Snow was already annoyed. Apparently, everyone else was having fun, and they’d started without him.
Angel did not draw blade as the cat accelerated. He hadn’t lied. He understood that the sword was magical, but he did not trust himself to handle it well while moving in directions, and at speed, over which he had no control. He could almost hear his father’s harsh bark, used specifically for training the sons and daughters of the Free Towners.
He was grateful that he had not drawn the sword when the lightning struck.
* * *
• • •
It flew from the heights, but not the sky, as the Sleepers finally tore free of the ground. Their upward movements had been slow, stately. When they reached the heart of the sky, they unfolded. Their shields and swords seemed almost trivial—statements, not weapons or armor; it was hard to imagine, from this vantage, that armor or weapons would be of use.
Meralonne APhaniel was the only one of the four who did not bear a shield; he had lost it on a long-ago Henden, the year Angel had followed Jay to House Terafin. That had been a dark, dark Henden; not even the events which had produced the grim and ceremonial privation of the six dark days had come close.
Angel did not, could not, recognize, the fussy, arrogant mage in the man he nonetheless knew he must be: he was almost of a piece with the Sleepers, his sword a spread of angry light that seemed to dim the sky in comparison.
That light stretched now, like four elemental hands, spread flat against the ground below their feet, below their spire, and what it touched it burned; the flames were blue; blue and white. Buildings flared and crumbled, but the buildings were collateral; it was the trees that shuddered, consumed in what was barely a wave of the hand.
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