But he waited instead, like a judge, or a teacher.
And after a moment, she said, “No, I’ll go anyway. I’m not demanding it,” she said quietly. Almost desperately. “I’m—”
He lifted a hand. “I will do as you ask,” he told her. “I will make sure they have a place, and the money, and even the slates that you use. But, Jewel, they won’t be what you want them to be if you’re not here to lead them. You do understand that?”
“I’m just one person,” she told him flatly. Believing it. Maybe she had to. Because this was possible, he offered no argument.
“I will do as you ask,” he told her again. And then he said, “You know.”
“Tonight.”
He nodded. “I should have guessed.”
“I just can’t see what’s going to happen.”
“Nor can I. If you were trained somehow—” But he shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. Your instincts are good; trust them. When you are there, when you are in the lion’s den, trust what you feel or think. Don’t let fear guide you, but let fear make you cautious.”
“Did you learn that from Haval?”
Rath raised a brow. He laughed, but the laugh was brief and almost bitter. “No,” he replied quietly. “I learned it from my own mistakes. I survived them,” he added, “where others did not. Mistakes are made constantly; it’s what you do with them after that counts.”
“Will this help Duster?”
“That, I cannot answer; you know her better than I, and I admit that she has surprised me in the last ten days.” He paused, playing with his pen. “I think that it will either help her or free you.”
“Free me?”
“You will let her go.”
Jewel nodded. She couldn’t see how, but she heard truth in the words, and it was her truth, not Rath’s. Here, just Rath and she, she was comfortable in a way that she hadn’t been in weeks. Since she had brought Duster home.
“You’ll know,” he added, with no hesitation and no doubt. “When the moment comes, you’ll know, and you’ll make your decision only then.”
“Will she survive it?”
“I don’t know.”
Will I? He could see the fear in her face; she was not capable of hiding fear. Not from Rath, who understood its nuances so well. But because she knew better than to ask, he was kind; he did not answer.
“Spend the day with your den. Do what you feel necessary to prepare them—if you think it wise. But by sunset, be ready to travel.”
She rose. “I’ll tell Duster.”
He nodded; he had no intention of speaking to Duster except in this fashion: through Jewel. Through the leader of this misfit den.
“She doesn’t believe in you,” he said, as Jewel unfolded and rose.
“I know. But, most of the time, neither do I.” And she smiled as she said it. Some hint of the child she would not be for much longer was in that movement of lip, the crinkling of eye.
Rath could not speak a word. But he let her go.
That evening, they ate early, at Rath’s command. It was phrased as a polite request, but he so seldom entered the rooms in which Jewel was teaching that everyone instantly deferred to him. Even Jewel. Especially Jewel.
The kitchen was quiet. Finch was quiet, and not in her usual way. Teller was utterly silent; it was a very funereal meal. But Rath joined them, and ate with them, sitting cross-legged on the floor of Jay’s room—the room in which they usually ate if everyone was there.
Then Jewel kicked them all out, so that she and Duster could change into fine dresses. Jewel’s was almost beautiful; it was not the dress that she wore to Haval’s, but softer and shinier than that. It had sleeves that would trail in the snow, skirts that were full enough to rustle; it was a deep blue, a dark color that was neither the azure of the clear sky at day, nor the dark of the night.
Duster, however, wore the dress that she wore to Haval’s, and beside Jewel’s, it looked practical, serviceable, fine enough for work. They stared at each other; Jewel with her hair still long and straight—or as straight as it would ever be—and Duster with hers a pale platinum, knotted as Haval had shown her, behind a fine web of netting.
They took time to color each other’s faces, to change the tone of their skin, to shade their cheeks to imply cheekbones, or perhaps heighten them; they did this with shaking hands, for each other; there were no other mirrors.
And when they were done, they drew a single breath and opened the doors. The den gaped at their transformation, but before they could freeze or speak, Rath stepped forward.
“It’s time,” he told them all, almost gently. “Come. All of you.”
Lander did not look up, but Lefty touched his shoulder gently with his maimed hand, deliberately exposing the lost fingers, as if to ensure that the touch held no threat. Lander met Lefty’s eyes and rose obediently, following Lefty.
“You will not speak of this,” he told them all, “to anyone. I would be happiest if you did not speak about it among yourselves either, but I am realistic enough to hold little hope for that. Finch and Carver, you’ve seen some of what I will show the others.”
Finch nodded hesitantly. Carver, bangs obscuring one eye entirely, nodded more forcefully.
“We will not chance the streets tonight,” Rath told Jewel. She stared at him in surprise. Of all the things she had been careful not to share with her den-kin, the existence of the maze beneath their home was foremost. It was Rath’s, to give or withhold. And tonight, he chose to give it, like a benediction.
Or a doom.
He held out a magestone to Carver. “Hold this,” he said quietly. “Jewel, you have yours?”
She nodded; she always had it. Hidden, light eclipsed by fabric and lack of command, it warmed her pockets.
“Good. We will have need of it, I think.” He led them, not to the door that led out into the hall, and from there to the streets, but in, toward the closed storeroom door that was never used.
There, the magelight brightening at Rath’s command, even though it rested in Carver’s palm, no sunlight shone, and there were no window wells, with their pathetic offering of scant light.
Duster looked at Jewel. Jewel shook her head. Silence reigned, and not even Jester was fool enough to break it; you could hear breathing. Only breathing.
But Rath said, “this is not a grave, and we are not attendants at a funeral. This is a hidden world, and in many ways, it has been mine. If you are not careful, you will fall and injure yourselves; no more and no less.”
“Where are we going?” Carver asked quietly.
“You? Not far. Jewel, Duster and I will travel farther this eve. But we may have need of the maze in the next few days, and you will know when we use it.”
“But not why?”
Rath didn’t answer, which was answer enough. Instead, he bent and retrieved the packs that held rope. He handed one to Jewel and after retrieving the twine from the other, shouldered it himself. To Duster, he handed nothing—nothing but this knowledge.
Jewel understood that it was almost a vote of confidence in the evening, in what might follow. She felt momentarily overwhelmed by the knowledge, and she bit back words because they would come out garbled. Or worse, they would come out choked.
He led them down, through the trap, and into the subbasement, ordering the taller among them to watch their heads. Carver still held the magestone aloft.
“Jay,” Rath said, “go first. When you are down, and safe, light your own stone so the others can see.”
She nodded, and he wrapped the rope around her, knotting it loosely. It was a guide, no more.
“You have an escape tunnel here?” Duster whispered.
Jewel smiled. “Not exactly. Watch.” And Rath lowered her down, and down again, the rope pinching her under-arms. He never tied it around her waist.
When she hit bottom, and felt the uneven dirt and stone with the flat of her palms, she drew out her own magestone, and held it in much the same way that Carver wa
s holding Rath’s: so that they could all see. There was a magic in the moment that had nothing to do with stones.
They all followed, even Lander, who unfolded in the unnatural quiet as if he were waking from a dream. Or perhaps entering one, when the waking world was too damn hard to bear. He blinked, although the light was not harsh, and even reached out to touch the rough-hewn tunnel walls. And he said, “They’re cold.”
Jewel almost tripped over nothing; she would have, had she been moving. He spoke to Lefty, and Lefty didn’t even startle. The others all did, and Finch’s mouth was a rounded O of shock, quickly suppressed.
“No sunlight,” Lefty replied with a shrug, as if Lander had always spoken and these two words—his first—were not a surprise. Lander nodded, because it made sense.
The tunnels were cold, but they were not the Winter cold of the streets above; no snow graced or hid their surfaces; no ice crunched beneath their boots. Here, they might weather a bad Winter, if the lack of light didn’t drive them all mad. It certainly seemed to have the opposite effect on Lander, who seemed more alert than he had been since, well, ever.
Jewel thought that Rath would order the others out, but he didn’t; he led them instead farther in, to where the walls were walls, through the doorframe that seemed to bear too much weight, and beyond it. Here again, Lander stopped to touch everything. As if Lefty’s silent language had become some part of his movement, his gestures conveyed wonder, even awe. Rath must have noticed, although she never caught him looking at Lander, for he led them a little farther in, and he walked slowly, for Rath.
But when he reached the first branch, the first hint of road, he stopped and looked at them. “If someone comes for you fight as you must, and flee here if you can,” he told them quietly.
Jewel understood then that this was not a gift; it was practical. “Duster, Jewel and I must continue, but we will not leave by the door; nor will we return by it.
“However, on another day, I will take you farther; I will show you some of what lies beneath Averalaan. History,” he added, and he looked at Teller.
Teller nodded quietly.
“You can find your way back?”
“I can,” Carver answered firmly. He hesitated, and then said, “But we’d like to go with you.”
“Not tonight.”
“If we can help—”
“If we need your help,” Rath replied, and then stopped. “Not tonight,” he said again, but more gently.
“Jay—”
“No, Carver. Arann, cut it out. Take Lander and Lefty and Finch home.” She paused, and then said, “We’re going to be with Rath. We’ll be as safe as we can possibly be. Go home.”
They still hesitated, and instead of resenting it, she found it oddly comforting. But Rath was waiting, and he was watching her with that peculiar testing expression he so often wore these days. “What are you afraid of?” she asked instead.
Carver and Arann exchanged a glance; they said nothing. It was Teller who lifted his chin. “We know why you’re going,” he said at last. “And we’re willing to help.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“We’d like you to come home,” he replied, after a brief pause, “And it’s clear that you all think there’s a chance you won’t make it back. If we can help—”
Jewel lifted a hand.
But Teller kept talking in his quiet, soft voice, “And we don’t, and something happens, we’d rather not live with it.”
This, she could understand; wasn’t it how she felt herself most days? You have to be able to live with yourself. Her Oma’s voice. Her Oma’s sharp words.
“You all feel this way?”
Jester nodded. Even Fisher, whose silence was less a matter of trauma and more a matter of personality, nodded.
“You can’t speak for Lander,” she began.
“I want to go,” Lander said.
She hesitated for a moment, weighing all options. And then she nodded. Saw Rath’s brows rise. “You told me to trust my instincts,” she said, and if she sounded defensive, it was mostly because she was.
“You’ll risk them?” he asked, the words stark, like all accusations stated baldly.
Carver said, “It’s not her choice. It’s ours. I’m older than she is,” he added, drawing his lanky shoulders back and gaining a couple of inches in the process.
“She is the den leader,” Rath told him quietly. “And I will not question her decision further. I merely want to make clear—”
“You want her to worry,” Carver said, cutting him off, “but she’ll do that anyway. She’s been leaving instructions for days, just ‘in case.’ ” He paused. “I don’t know where you grew up, Rath.” It was the first time he had ever addressed Rath by name, and he did not flinch or step back as he said it. “I know where I did. This is my home now. I want to keep it. I don’t want to go back to what I had before. None of us do.”
“You’ve discussed this?”
“We don’t have to,” Carver replied. “We all know. She found us,” he added. “We probably wouldn’t have found her. Sure, we’d be able to skip the reading lessons,” he added with a grimace of distaste, “but the food and the fire are kind of important.”
“I . . . see.”
“You don’t.”
“Carver—”
“No.” Carver’s arms had folded across his chest, and he no longer leaned against the nearest wall. His eyes—well, the one you could actually see—were slightly narrowed, and his lips thinned; he was angry. And he was afraid. Then again, being afraid made him angry, so no surprise there.
“We could send Finch back with the others,” Arann offered. Lefty kicked him. “Or not.”
Duster stared at them all, and then she looked at Jewel. There was, for just a moment, a hunger about her expression that Jewel couldn’t look at for long. “We might die,” she told them bluntly, using words that Jewel had so carefully, deliberately avoided. “And if you’re there, if you’re anywhere near, you might die.
“Don’t you follow her because she saved you? You want to throw that back in her face? Throw it away?”
“Without her,” Carver said willing to face Duster down where even Arann was not, “I’d still be alive. Don’t bother trying that with me.”
“Then why do you care?” Duster shot back. Her hand had fallen to her hip.
“Because she does,” Carver said steadily. “She wants us, we’ll come. No, never mind, we want to be there, and if she’ll let us, we will be.”
Rath said, “It is up to you, Jewel, but decide quickly.”
Jewel nodded. Her throat felt tight, which was stupid. “Come,” she told them all, even Lander. “I don’t think we’ll need help—but right now, I don’t know.”
And she had not been allowed to follow her father to work the day he’d died. You’re not their parent, she told herself, but the words didn’t take, couldn’t hold her.
As if, in the end, he had expected no less, Rath nodded. She didn’t understand him; she was certain she never would. But as she glanced sideways at him, it came to her that he was testing, yes, but this one—this one was not for her, and not, in the end, directly about her. It was for them, for the den that she had told him, time and again, was special.
She wondered if they had passed or failed; nothing in his expression gave the answer away. “I don’t want anyone to follow who doesn’t want to be here, Carver.”
“Everyone wants to be here.”
“Can they speak for themselves?”
“Why? You speak for us most times. I’m speaking for them. Do they look like they’re being forced?”
She looked at them all, and they all met her gaze and held it, even Lander. So she nodded. “It’s fair.”
Rath paused and then said, “I suppose these will be useful.” And he pulled, from his pocket, three magestones. “They are mine, and are to be treated as if they are mine. But distribute them; we are too long a line to have only two such lights.”
; Success or failure, he had anticipated them.
Rath watched as Carver gave a stone to Teller, Finch and Lander. Finch and Teller, Rath could easily see as wise choices; he could also understand why he did not choose to grant that responsibility to Arann, their only giant. But Lander? That took perception or kindness, or some mixture of both.
But Carver alone had not come to Jewel through vision; he had aided her, and he had followed her, his past veiled and less threatening than the past of the other children. He was not a calm child, and he did not have Teller’s obvious penchant for quiet but intent observation. Yet he must have observed what Rath himself only guessed at. Lander stared at the stone for a long moment, and then nodded quietly. He kept his hand out, extending the gift of that light to those around him.
Rath did not carefully observe the words they exchanged in their hurried odd movements; they spoke only with their hands. A secret language, he thought, and it pained him, for his sister and he—as children—had devised so many, and it was a reminder to Rath of both his own childhood, and the fact that these were still children, although they bridled at the word with the obvious arrogance—and ignorance—of youth.
Having given Rath back his own magestone and distributed the other three, Carver kept for himself only his daggers, and not even both of them; he handed one to Arann who nodded grimly—for Arann—and accepted it. Just as the others had accepted the gift and responsibility of light.
Jewel was not surprised, or did not appear to be surprised; she merely nodded her thanks to Carver as he approached her. But where the den had spoken with their hands, as if words would somehow break or damage the spell of the undercity, Jewel chose—as she often would—words.
“Keep an eye out,” she told him. “Both now and then. If we don’t come back, get them home, if you can. Get them out somewhere crowded and safe if you can’t.”
He nodded. Interesting. That she had chosen Carver, and not Arann; that he accepted.
They traveled more slowly than they might have had they been just three; Jewel couldn’t be certain if Rath was annoyed or not. He set the pace, however, and he held her back when she tried to forge ahead. He didn’t show them the stone garden, or anything else that Jewel would have shown them had she had time; those wonders, like quiet promises, lay in the dark, waiting.
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