She’s fine. This was more hope than truth.
“Birgide!”
He gestured again. He could not use den-sign to encapsulate the whole of his thought: that the trees were, even now, falling at the command of the Sleepers, and that he wanted Birgide to be unconscious for all of it; she had suffered enough, and her suffering wouldn’t change reality. She felt the loss of those trees as personally, as profoundly, as Jester had felt the loss of his den.
But if Jay could see Birgide, she couldn’t see Jester’s den-sign. And perhaps she could see neither. Birgide was a part of the forest in a way the den wasn’t.
He was there, bracing Birgide, as she lifted her head. He felt the tremor of musculature, the shifting of stance—into a stance—as she struggled to gain her feet. The Terafin was home, and Birgide had her duties. Jester, who had avoided duty as if it were just another word for enslavement, felt shame. It was brief; he couldn’t afford it, either. But he wondered what she had been like when she served Duvari.
“I still serve Duvari,” Birgide whispered.
He looked down at their hands, still joined.
“Nothing Duvari has commanded of me has been like this,” the Warden continued, briefly closing her eyes. “But . . . nothing Duvari has commanded of me has been so important to me personally, either. I accept it, Jester. I accepted it on the first day, by the tree of fire.” Her smile was crooked, but genuine; her eyes were no longer a burning, bloodred. “I wanted this,” she whispered. “I still want it. I will always want it. I didn’t realize,” she added, “that you were part of the bargain. I might have been more cautious, if I had.”
He surprised himself. He laughed. It hurt. He tried to extricate his hand, which was numb from lack of circulation, but Birgide shook her head. Inhaling, she gained inches of height, relieving Jester of her weight. She raised her chin, raised her head, but did not speak.
Words made no difference. But she was smiling grimly.
* * *
• • •
The glitter of trees of diamond could be seen among these half-formed buildings. Jewel then turned, briefly, to Night. She didn’t speak, but Night hissed in displeasure anyway. He flew off.
“Celleriant.”
“Lord.”
“Be prepared.”
“They will not harm her.”
“They will not harm her,” she said softly, “if you are prepared.” She lifted her voice once again. “Calliastra!”
And the goddess—for she was that, here, said, I cannot save them both. It was a cool, definitive statement.
Jewel, however, shook her head. She did not argue.
“Haval.” No. “Councillor.”
* * *
• • •
Haval did not smile. His expression did not change at all; it gave nothing away. He was certain that Jewel could now see him, but did not look for her. He could hear her voice, and that was enough. He was not a man given to fear, not a man given to acting on that fear; he absorbed it instead, examined it, dissected it. Even here, in the lee of the Common, which might never be the Common again.
Not thirty yards away was what remained of Elemental Fashion. He had given the scant years remaining of his youth to it; had given the years laughingly referred to as his prime. And he had given the whole of the rest of his life to Hannerle. Yet at the moment, he felt no fear for her. No fear for the life that had absorbed him—with her permission—since Jewel had become Terafin.
He did not know, now, what life held in store for them. Did not know what “normal,” if such a thing existed, would become. He was aware of Jewel in a way that he had never been aware of her before. He nodded as if it answered a question, and it did, but not perhaps a question he had asked.
The streets here had changed in both shape and texture, and where the trees had been toppled, there were gaps that spoke of earthquake. These, he circumnavigated. The forest guards did not; gravity did not compel them to fall. Haval, however, was mortal, human. And he listened as he moved, scanning the streets and the skies above them.
He was surprised when the last of the forest guards joined him: they were crystalline. Nothing that hit them seemed to be worthy of notice, and they, as the spirits of more natural trees—if such a thing could be said of the Ellariannatte which had sprouted full-grown in the streets—did not seem compelled to fall when they stepped across gaps in the earth. But falling stone, falling timber, did not slow them, and as Haval watched, he realized they were now going where he had not: to what remained of the store he had built with his wife.
He could see bolts of fabric unraveling in the streets; the dirt and the debris would damage them beyond repair, and they had been costly. He could see shards of glass and the twisted metal that had once held them in their wooden frames; those frames, listing, were now empty. The door was gone, and one wall had been reduced in size, tumbled in by the fall of a tree.
The diamond soldiers, in shape and form similar to those of silver and gold, proceeded directly through the absent door. They did not knock down walls that Haval was certain had very little structural integrity remaining. He turned to the spirit guard and briefly sent them to the north, where his eye had caught a flicker of movement.
He was almost Astari, he thought. He understood the fear that hovered beneath the surface of words though he shelved it because it was too costly. The responsibility, the duty, was the greater weight, the larger necessity. He was not a man who lied to himself. He was not a man who lied to his wife, except by omission, and all other lies were simple tools, offered to create a desired effect, a useful response.
But he watched the soldiers enter the building; caught glimpses of them as they passed the gaps in windows, the gaps in what were once solid walls. He had not approached this building because he could not afford—the city could not afford—the slow paralysis that now made itself felt.
The forest guard moved at his quiet command; they did not pause as he paused, did not cease to breathe, because they did not require breath in this form; they did not lay down arms. In ones and twos he had lost these guards, sometimes without warning, but they had come from the trees that were the heart of Jewel’s domain, not the trees that had grown at the command of her Warden. Some of the spirits had been destroyed by the aerial attackers, but they returned because those attackers could not—yet—reach their roots.
They had retrieved the fallen, the injured, and those who had managed to survive their hiding places, and they had returned to Finch in that fashion.
The diamond soldiers, however, would not. They were not as lithe, as limber, as the spirits of the Ellariannatte, which was only to be expected. Nor would they dissipate in the same fashion.
“Councillor?”
Haval did not respond. Hands loosely clasped behind his back, he waited. They did return; he was aware of the passage of time yet did not mark it precisely. Above and around him, lightning flashed sporadically from the clear skies above. He did not hold his breath. Did not otherwise acknowledge what he now, in some small compartment of his mind, feared. There was no fear he had not faced, and would not, in the end face.
The soldiers returned from the ruins of his store, carrying Hannerle. She was either unconscious or dead. They did not, however, deliver her to Haval; they delivered her, instead, to the more mobile Ellariannatte, and without so much as a pause to receive his orders, they carried her away, on the pathways into the forest that were, even now, being eradicated by the Sleepers.
The diamond soldiers then turned to Haval. They were not so numerous as the rest of his soldiers; there were four.
In silence, they waited his orders.
“The pillars,” he said. “Destroy them.”
* * *
• • •
“Daine.”
Daine rose quickly, turning in the direction of the voice. Because Verena was almost preternaturally awa
re of her surroundings, he failed to knock her over. Even the water she carried in a too-full bucket failed to slosh over its rim. Although he had made clear to her that the forest itself was safe, she did not believe him. And wouldn’t, either; he knew that much.
He knew more. But he had been taught, time and again, that some division between healer and healed must be maintained for the sanity of both.
One of the forest guards looked across the very impromptu healerie that Daine had established. “Daine?”
“Tell Healer Levec that the healerie is under his supervision.” The younger healer almost laughed at the expression that flitted, like a passing breeze, over the spirit’s face. It reminded Daine, perversely, of his own years as one of Levec’s students. No one wanted to be the bearer of bad news when it came to Levec. To be fair, no one wanted to be the bearer of any news, because Levec’s temper could make any news bad.
He dried his hands as Verena set the pail down.
“Where are we going?” she asked him.
“You are staying here.”
She snorted.
“Daine.”
He surrendered. He didn’t tell the theoretical nurse trainee to follow him; short of incarcerating her—and the forest guard had offered—she would. “Just—no weapons.”
“Why not? We’re leaving the healerie.”
“If we need your weapons, we’re already dead.”
Verena bridled. She was not like Birgide, not like Duvari; she was not like any of the known Astari Daine had observed. But she was twelve. Maybe equanimity would come with time. Jay didn’t give him instructions. He wasn’t certain she was even aware of what he was doing; he understood instinctively what she wanted of him. He probably always would. He had healed The Terafin. He had called her back from the brink of death.
Just as Alowan had saved the previous Terafin.
And that had saved Daine. He could acknowledge that now. Having The Terafin, having Jay, as part of his thoughts had offered him a brief glimpse of a world that was not ugly, political, self-serving, and he had clung to it until he could widen that glimpse.
The leaves overhead rustled; he heard the wind whip through them. He wasn’t surprised to see leaves fall, torn from their branches as if by a gale. Verena looked up without pause, scanning the forest for the minute changes of shadow that implied possible assailants.
Daine did not. He was certain that, for the moment, the forest was safe. But the howl of the wind was unsettling, regardless. It implied storm, and if the entirety of the forest was now Averalaan’s shelter, it had no walls, no roof. Some tenting existed, but not nearly enough to cover the growing number of people who had taken shelter here.
And one more was now arriving.
Unlike the others, she came alone, carried by one of the forest guardians as if she weighed no more than a young child. He looked up, met the eyes of that spirit, and then looked down, understanding that she would be carried until the exact moment Daine himself told the tree to set her down.
He understood why The Terafin had called him; understood what The Terafin wanted of him now. And he thought it was too late. But he had not waited in the mess of a massive—and growing—healerie; Jay had, indirectly, told him that there would be no time. No time.
He said, as he lifted his hands, “I’m sorry, Verena.”
She tensed; he knew this, although he didn’t look back. But she didn’t ask him what he was going to do. She knew. She hesitated. Daine was standing too close to the forest’s edge. And the woman whose face he now framed with both open palms, was dead.
No, not dead. Not more dead than Verena herself had been on the day Daine had found her. It would weaken Daine immensely, to do this thing. The injured were arriving by the dozens. The numbers had slowed, yes—but not by enough. He thought of Levec and grimaced.
She could not tell Daine not to do this, although she did try. Her mouth opened on the words, but no words escaped. In the end, she accepted what she could not change. To the tree that stood, woman in his arms, she said, “You’d better kneel, if you can. He’s going to fall over.”
* * *
• • •
Eldest.
The fox looked up. “Lord.”
Defend my forest.
He glanced up, to the Sleepers. “Your forest is not yet under attack, Lord. And the Sleepers—”
I’m here. Defend my forest. Defend my people.
There was no doubt in the command, no doubt in the words, no hesitation at all. There was a force of fury, of certainty, that caused the golden fox to smile, as if at some remembered event in a distant past.
“Lord.” He glanced, once more, at the princes of the first age of the world, and then shook himself, frowning.
* * *
• • •
The trees grew. They had achieved their full height on the day Jewel ATerafin had first entered the wilderness, or so Birgide Viranyi had believed. But now they grew as Verena watched. The wind above their crowns was a torrent, a scream of rage and fury, but no more leaves fell at the sound of its voice.
A small creature that might have been a fox if not for its color peered out from between the trees at the young woman; it appeared to raise a brow at the daggers she carried in either hand. She did not consider it a threat, but knew, conversely, that it could be, if it were of a mind.
It wandered over to where Daine now knelt against the forest floor. “I see,” it said. “You will watch over them?”
It took Verena a moment to realize he was not speaking to the tree, but to her.
“I’ll watch over him,” she replied. “Nothing will get past me.”
“Ah.” He met her eyes, tilted his head, and huffed. “I see you are already bound. Mortals are surprising. He cannot be moved yet, but when he can, you must direct him to the tree of fire.”
“And his patient?”
“Patient? Ah, you mean the woman? She must, of course, accompany you. It is the Lord’s desire.”
* * *
• • •
Jewel grimaced. It was an expression she had worked—hard—to remove from her repertoire of expressions as it was considered inappropriate for The Terafin. No one who would now be offended could see it. Her hands tightened, but only briefly, as the crystal’s vision moved, the Kings overlapping a familiar face.
“Jarven.”
* * *
• • •
Jarven looked up. “Terafin.” He did not raise his voice. If she was aware of his presence, he did not feel the added volume he could muster would be relevant. He was, unexpectedly, surprised. He could see Jewel ATerafin clearly. The buildings that stood in the way—admittedly many of them new and not yet fully formed—did not impede his vision of her at all.
He could see the winged cat beneath her. Could see the shadows cast by the cat’s wings as they lay against the ground; they were larger—by far—than the physical form of the cat suggested. He was ATerafin, his home was the manse; there was no way he could be unaware of the existence of The Terafin’s three cats. But he had not spent time in their presence since he had concluded his various negotiations with the forest elder.
Did she know?
No, he thought. Not consciously. No more had her den, not even Finch, the one person in it he felt should have. When they spoke of the cats at all, it was with tolerant affection or amused disgust.
He could see the tendrils of The Terafin’s hair whip free of whatever normally confined them; could see unruly curls become slightly straighter in the colder, drier air. He could see her expression, and in it, the heat of determination, the movement of thought. She was not what Jarven was. Had never been what Jarven hoped to become.
He thought she might be more, and that did not even annoy him. It was almost with pity that he spoke, when he chose to speak again. “What would you have of me, Terafin?”
&nb
sp; “Go to Sigurne. No matter what happens, protect Sigurne.”
Again, she had surprised him.
“And not the Kings?” he asked, as he began to move. He did not expect an answer. Nor was he now far from where the magi who served the Twin Kings directly had chosen to make their stand. What he had not expected—and this was to be a day of small surprises—was Sigurne’s position. Although he could see the clear signature of her power in the barriers erected at the Kings’ backs, she was not behind them.
“You might,” he said, through slightly clenched teeth, “set me a task I am not certain to fail.” He looked up, and up again. Sigurne Mellifas, the guildmaster who had resolutely refused a patrician style of name, was climbing the air. She did not fly, and her progress was slow; she appeared to be walking up the steps of her tower, absent actual stairs or walls or visible destination.
Jarven could not see what she climbed, could not see how. He understood the base functionality of the air when it was summoned, but the air itself chose both the path and the locomotion; she was mortal. She could not have roused the wind.
But no, he thought—those were rules, and rules were meant to be understood and absorbed completely only because there was no other way to figure out how to break them.
Ah, no, that was inexact. One could break rules one did not understand; fools tried it frequently, which occasioned the necessity of the magisterial guard. But fools seldom profited from such breakage. Jarven had learned that lesson early. He had been a boy discontent with his lot in life, and determined to improve it, but he had not suffered from the need to appear to be in control. He was content to let others do so. He learned from their mistakes. He then made mistakes of his own, but they were more subtle if no less ambitious; he stumbled but did not fall.
He would not fall now.
He could not, however, circumnavigate the barrier erected by the magi; although he had passed unseen through the carnage of the rest of the city streets, dodging even the notice of the dragon, he would not be able to do so here. He knew the protections placed down by the magi but was certain that decades had shifted that understanding as the enterprising among the mage-born fortified and tweaked the base spells.
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