The air was all of his reply; it lifted her gently off her feet. “We will wait there,” he told her. “For it is most assuredly there . . .” He did not finish.
Nor did Sigurne press him.
* * *
• • •
The golden fox found Finch by the side of the great tree. Finch noted that he took care not to approach that tree, although he offered no disrespect. He did not display the same respect for Finch. “Come,” he said. “It is almost time, and we are wanted.”
“I highly doubt we are wanted,” Finch replied. She glanced, once, at the ancient tree, and heard the rustle of what might have been a chuckle in the leaves overhead.
“Very well. You will, of course, be insignificant—but I will be wanted.”
“And where is Jarven?”
“He is not here. You are.” There was an edge in the fox’s voice now, and Finch remembered his teeth. He looked at Teller, sniffed, and waited with a growing aura of petty impatience.
Teller raised a hand in den-sign, and Finch, schooling her face, refused to grimace. Instead, she dusted leaves off her skirt and made her way to the fox’s side. But she did not leave Teller behind.
Teller straightened his own clothing; it was clothing meant for the right-kin’s office, but not perhaps in its current state. He then offered the fox a respectful bow, bending in time with Finch as she opened her arms and lifted the golden elder.
“Come, come. Do not linger, or we will be late.”
“Late for what?”
The fox sighed heavily, theatrically, and refused to answer. But Finch could feel a tremble in the whole of his slight body. For a moment she thought he was afraid.
“Anyone wise would know some fear,” the fox said, although she had been far too wise to put that thought into words. “But anyone alive would be . . . excited. Yes, I believe that is the word. It is a pity that the eldest does not choose to uproot himself or fashion a more mobile form that he might occupy. I have never completely understood why, but it is irrelevant; he may miss the event on his own.”
* * *
• • •
It was day above the city that had once been Averalaan. As the accumulation of minutes inevitably became hours, sunlight recolored the edge of the sky, shifting the azure that it had become upon The Terafin’s ascension into a blend of brilliant colors. It was an astonishing sunrise, a thing of beauty; it was almost impossible for anyone watching to consider it an omen.
Sunrise.
Dawn. True dawn.
Although the sun had not fully risen, people began to gather beneath the boughs of the three trees, as if those trees were the Kings’ trees, and the place they grew, the Common. Some of those people were mortal; many were not. There was, for the moment, uneasiness but no fear as they stood almost side by side; they were all there by The Terafin’s grace. As if the combat above their heads were the displays of lights and magical fire offered by the magi every year, they watched. Nothing disturbed them.
No enterprising merchants were there to take advantage of the crowds, but the bards returned from the safety of the forest, armed only with their chosen traveling instruments, and they moved among the crowd, their voices raised. They sang the song The Wayelyn had written.
So, too, The Wayelyn himself. He sang as history unfolded; sang while the darkness of the sky receded and dawn heralded the beginning of a new day. His performance encouraged participation; timid voices—some with a questionable sense of tune—joined in. But when Kallandras began to sing, people fell silent—even the Master Bards of Senniel. They had a talent in common, but the power of Kallandras’ singing was not the product of talent alone; his experience was not their experience, and his power had always been the greater power.
Thus did the dawn of Lattan begin. It was the beginning of a new age.
At the height of the walls, The Terafin looked down upon her city; she gestured and the gates—for there were gates, now, such as had never existed in the city in any of its historical iterations—rolled open. Just beyond the shadow of the walls themselves stood a small army, and at their head, on the back of a white, white stag, rode a woman in robes of gold and green and azure; her hair was a platinum sheen, more like silk than hair, and it fell past her shoulders, down her back. Almost, it seemed to blend with the coat of her mount.
All voices stilled except Kallandras of Senniel’s, and it was to the accompaniment of his song that the Summer Queen at last entered the city.
But from the moment the gates rolled open, the aerial combat ceased. All motion above the ground, and almost all motion upon it, ceased as well. This exalted visitor gazed at the city, at its new buildings, and at the inhabitants gathered around the three great trees, with eyes a luminous silver-green. She nudged her mount forward. Behind her came the rest of her entourage, an entourage fit in all ways for a Queen that had walked out of legend, out of myth, or, more intimately, out of children’s story.
Two of these, were it not for her commanding presence, might have been familiar to some of the watchers: the Guildmaster of the Order of Makers and his apprentice, missing for over a decade. But they were arrayed in strange clothing, and they were mortal, and the onlookers might be forgiven if their eyes passed over them as they walked.
All eyes, however, fell upon the mortal man who sat astride the Summer Queen’s mount. He was, unlike the maker-born, wearing ratty clothing that had seen better years, and his feet were bare; his hair was dark, and covered half his face, and his hands were sun-bronzed but dirty, as if he had been plucked from the gardens of the Queen in mid-task, and ordered to accompany her in a singular position of honor.
They felt curiosity and a sharp sense of envy—for if such as he could ride with such a Queen, might not that Queen then look with kindness upon them?
* * *
• • •
Angel and Adam, on the walls above the procession, stiffened. Angel signed; Adam signed. Neither were foolish enough to disturb the arrival of the Summer Queen with something as profane as spoken words.
But the cats—complaining—came to them at an unspoken command; Shadow gathered Jay, Snow took Adam, and Night grudgingly accepted Angel’s weight. Very grudgingly. Nothing would silence these cats.
And they were cats again. They were solid enough to ride, solid enough to touch. They circled, their passengers on their backs, as if they couldn’t quite see the point in landing; they certainly let it be known that they couldn’t see a reason for all the fussing.
Their voices broke the Summer Queen’s spell, and people who could see nothing but Ariane at the head of her procession now frowned and looked up at the sky in disapproval.
Angel was tempted to point out that the only fussing at the moment came from the cats themselves, but decided against it; the cats would argue. Vociferously.
As it was, they flew loudly, roaring to indicate that whoever happened to be under the spot they intended to land on had better move. There was nearly a pileup as the cats predictably chose the same spot on which to land. Angel, however, was off Night’s back practically before his paws touched stone; he was running toward the Summer Queen as if he couldn’t see her at all.
He was joined in his headlong rush by Arann, in the newly dented armor the Chosen of Terafin wore. Jester, Finch, and Teller were more circumspect; they walked. They walked quickly.
Nor did the Summer Queen mistake their approach for aggression, and understanding that the Summer Queen was guest here, not monarch, her escort did not leap in front of her, bristling with wrath and weapons. She glanced at the mortal she had deigned to carry this far and spoke a single word. He did not dismount; instead, the air lifted him, buoyed him, carrying him silently until the flats of his bare feet touched the city streets. He stumbled, righted himself, and turned to look at the den. His den.
* * *
• • •
Angel reac
hed him first; he was not burdened by the weight of armor that slowed Arann—although not, truthfully, by much. He didn’t stop short, but opened his arms and nearly knocked Carver over.
Arann’s added weight accomplished what Angel’s charge had not, and the three of them teetered before falling unceremoniously at the feet of the Summer Queen. Jester, Finch, and Teller arrived before the three had managed to sort out the tangle of arms and legs and emotion, but didn’t join them on the ground. They were aware of the woman who watched, a small, quirked smile lessening the austerity of her regal expression.
Last to come was Jay, and she made her way to the side of her den slowly, her hesitance clear, as if she knew viscerally that she no longer belonged with them. She lifted her hands and dropped them perhaps a half dozen times. She had no words, and den-sign required at least some of them.
Angel noticed. Had he been less encumbered, he would have caught those shifting hands and dragged her into the center of the den, Ariane and the gathered host be damned. He couldn’t, but he did try.
Jay then collected herself and turned toward the Summer Queen; she froze again. This time, Shadow’s growl caught her attention. She flushed and dropped her chin in the Weston nod offered between equals.
Ariane waited.
“Welcome,” Jay said, “to Averalaan.”
“That is not the name I hear the trees speak,” Ariane replied, her voice gentle and amused.
“No? No, then. But it is the name its people speak. I am one of them. I was born in the hundred holdings. I’ve spent my life in Averalaan. The city . . . is mine to protect, mine to defend, mine to keep safe. It is not something I own, and it is not . . . something I rule.”
She turned, then, and waited.
The Twin Kings’ procession was far more ragged, far less impressive, than the Summer Queen’s had been. Once people had caught sight of that Queen, it was almost impossible to voluntarily look away; she had cast no spell, but no spell, no enchantment, was required. Her presence alone commanded attention, and held it.
But . . . Jay waited. She waited in a silence that was broken only by the movement of the Twin Kings, and the Twin Kings—armed now with the rod and the sword that Fabril had crafted for their use—made their way to stand by her side. They each offered Jay the nod that was offered to equals, and she replied in kind.
They offered Ariane bows, instead.
Ariane inclined her head, but the amusement faded as she regarded Jay from eyes of silver, of green.
“The Terafin has greeted you in our stead,” King Cormalyn said, his golden eyes shining. “She is the heart of our defenses, and the city hears her voice.”
“And I serve the Twin Kings,” Jay said quietly. “They are my monarchs. I am their liege.” She glanced at King Cormalyn.
The King nodded. “The Terafin is, of course, ruler of her own lands, and it is our understanding that she walked those lands to reach you. But we have enemies in common. You are welcome in the city. You are welcome in the Empire, should you choose to travel it.”
Ariane’s mount knelt. She dismounted with the ease of long practice; the flow of her skirts did not impede her at all. “I accept your hospitality, and I offer you—should you desire it—the hospitality of my own court, for that court and the many roads that might be traveled to reach it, is open now.
“But I must speak a moment with your liege, for promises were made between us, and not on your behalf.” She bowed, then, so gracefully, so perfectly, it robbed witnesses of breath. When she rose, there was silence, even from the god-born.
Jay waited on the nod of the Kings before she spoke. And when she spoke, her voice was . . . a tangle of voices. She was pale, and it seemed to Angel that she trembled enough that she could not quite be seen clearly. “You are welcome in my forest. There are those among my own followers who are eager to see you again, and they cannot easily leave my lands. There are those,” she added, “who can, and they are here. But they understand why you have come, and they will not interfere.”
“I find your choice of buildings interesting.”
“They are what I know best.”
“I do not think you have seen many buildings such as that one.” Ariane turned toward the cathedral.
“Only as ruins.”
“Very well. I have returned to you your kin; I have paid the earth’s price in his stead. And now, I believe your city contains some of my kin.”
Jay nodded.
The Summer Queen walked, and the crowd parted in an instant to allow her free passage. They backed into the people behind them; stepped on the feet of strangers, in a rush to avoid her. To avoid impeding her. And she accepted this as her due; of course, she did.
It was Teller who reached Jay’s side first; Teller who touched her sleeve; his grip on her elbow tightened, and Angel could see his knuckles whiten. Jay did not appear to notice. But she didn’t appear to notice Ariane, either. She was trembling in place.
Finch joined Teller, grabbing Jay’s other arm. Shadow hissed but did not intervene; he muttered the word stupid loudly enough that Ariane turned to glance over her shoulder. Satisfied that the word was not meant for her, she then proceeded to ignore the great, gray cat.
Jay had not, Angel realized, dismounted.
“Shadow,” she whispered.
“Yes, yes, yesssssss.” He pushed off the ground.
“Home.”
The white cat and the black cat joined their brother.
But Teller did not let go of Jay’s arms, and this proved awkward; Jay didn’t seem to realize they were there. Shadow however, did. He growled. It was a warning growl, but it had no teeth in it.
Teller, however, shook his head. “Jay.”
“I have to go,” Jay whispered.
“I’m not telling you not to. But—take us. Take us with you.”
Finch frowned at Teller, signing with her free hand. Teller signed back. And Angel once again climbed up on Night’s back. Night shrieked in outrage but made no attempt to unseat him. To Finch, Angel signed, I’ll go. He made the same gesture in Teller’s direction though he knew Teller wouldn’t see it. Teller was a shade of gray-green that made no sense. They’d won. They hadn’t saved everyone, no—but they hadn’t lost everyone, either. Jay was home.
Carver was home.
And Teller was terrified. Teller, who had looked into the Oracle’s crystal. “Teller.” Teller nodded without turning. “Get on Snow’s back. We’ll go together.”
“You don’t—”
“We won’t let her out of our sight. We’ll go together, but—we have to go. Look at Jay.”
Teller swallowed. He had to force his hand to unclench, and even then, seemed to be fighting every screaming instinct to do it—he might have held on to the edge of a cliff with just such determination, when the alternative was a fall that would kill him.
Turning on Night, Angel smiled at Finch. “Get him home to Merry—but maybe have him changed and bathed first.” The black cat pushed off the ground as Shadow did; Snow was not far behind, Teller clinging to his back.
* * *
• • •
The cats did not fly to the Isle. They did not return to the Terafin manse. Their flight was short indeed; it led them to the steps of the cathedral—a cathedral reformed by the Sleepers into a thing of spires and light and windows. It was a palace that had no equal, and it was solid, it was real. Angel understood Teller’s reluctance then. But he understood, as Shadow landed, that this was home now.
Home for Jay. And home for Angel.
He dismounted as Jay did, reaching out to offer Teller a hand, which Teller accepted, unseeing. They followed Jay through doors that were already open, into a hall that was taller, by far, than any hall Angel had ever seen. They were dwarfed by it, insignificant. But Jay . . . was not. She walked as if in a dream, and Teller rushed to catch up with her.
He grabbed her sleeve again. Angel didn’t think it necessary but walked with care to one side of her shadow.
The gray cat was content for the moment to allow Angel the privilege of his spot, and that should have been a clue. Night and Snow took instantly to the air, and Angel thought he understood why the halls were so large, so tall. The cats would live here.
“Yes,” Shadow said, although Angel had not spoken. “This is where we will live. But it is where you will live, as well.”
“Are we supposed to move the entire Terafin manse here?”
“She could.”
But Jay said, “No.”
And Teller said, “That’s not up to you. It would be up to the regent.”
“It’s up to me. I’m The Terafin.”
Teller’s smile was slender, but it was genuine. “The Chosen serve you,” he pointed out. “They’re not going to agree to live across the bridge if you’re living here.”
“The Chosen serve me,” Jewel snapped, “and they’ll follow my orders.”
“They’re not House Guard. They’re Chosen.”
She wheeled, beneath that vaulted, light filled ceiling. “You have no idea what could happen to anyone who shares a roof with me. You have no idea how dangerous it could be. The foundations of this building were created to jail the Sleepers. To keep them—and their dreams—from destroying the city that was built above them, do you understand?”
Teller did not answer.
Angel, however, understood. And he understood that, as she gave vent to worry and frustration, her voice lost the echoes that made it seem . . . too much like the voice of a god.
“I can’t go back to the Terafin manse,” she said, her voice dropping. “I can’t. I’ll survive anything I—I dream of. I’ll survive anything I do in—in my sleep. You saw what happened to Ellerson and Carver.”
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