The great trees of the Common were decorated, from the lowest to the highest branches; the mages, of course, oversaw much of this part of the festivities, and it was always interesting to watch them work.
Jewel loved the longest day. She always had.
On the longest day, even her dour grandmother would gird herself with something that passed for a smile and enter the Common to stay a few hours. Her father, her mother, and their friends, children in hand, would also leave the safety and certainty of their small apartments. They would sometimes—Jewel remembered this clearly—walk toward the sea, and they would stand on the seawall, gazing for a few moments out at the Isle, where the poor did not go.
Jewel remembered the first time they had done this, because the Isle, with its towering cathedrals and the palace that was home to the Twin Kings, looked like something very much out of story. There, her father would say, live the sons and daughters of gods. And he would point.
There was no work to be had on the longest day, unless you were a merchant or a magisterial guard, in which case the day must have been long indeed. Jewel wondered, as she grew older, if the children of those merchants and guards hated the longest day as much as she loved it.
But after a glimpse of the Isle, the home to the scion of gods, they would go to the Common, walking slowly, chatting and playing as they moved.
It was a good day for thieves and beggars, as well. This year, the den didn’t have to be thieves, but it was close, and the temptation to turn someone else’s holiday into a lesson about caution and attention was stronger than it had been in years. But it wasn’t an overwhelming temptation, for Jewel, and she made it clear that they were to leave be. Only Duster complained.
She didn’t lead her den to the seawall. She didn’t lead them anywhere; she was content to let them wander.
For herself, she chose to watch the mages work at the base of the great trees, because they could—with effort—gain the heights. When they did, she could see, if she watched carefully, the sudden burst of color that surrounded them. She could see the orange or the gray, and gray was a color she seldom saw. They would not so much fly as float, and they would place, upon the higher branches, light. Not candles, of course; no fire. They would also argue. A lot. It made them seem human.
Finch and Teller chose to accompany her, and to watch, although they didn’t see as much as she did. They could, however, hear the raised voices and the bickering, and they found it as amusing as Jewel. Lefty and Arann had gone to talk to Farmer Hanson, and Duster and Carver had taken Lander in search of gods only knew what. Fisher and Jester, Angel in tow, had gone in search of food.
It was peaceful in the Common. Loud, of course, but it was the type of noise that put one at ease. There were children here, and grandparents, parents, uncles; there were small dogs and large dogs, the latter tightly leashed. There were horses, but these horses, taller by far than anyone else in the crowd, were accustomed to people, and the men and women who rode them, in their very fine uniforms, served the Kings.
The flags of the Common flew all night, hoisted on poles at the top of buildings, or in the Common itself. The flagpoles were further decorated by streamers and ribbons, and sometimes garlanded, although the mules and goats often took care of that. There were games and dances around those poles, erupting and ending in shrieks and laughter, and sometimes, where the younger children were involved, in tears; there were prizes given and received, and sometimes, as the sun began to wend its way toward the horizon, kisses.
Somewhere close by, a bard began to sing. Bardic voices stilled chatter, but even wordless there was a hum in the crowd that listened. Poor or rich, the longest day was a day of contentment in the Common. Oh, there were more guards, and the guards could be testy by the time the Common finally emptied, but on the longest day, they turned a blind eye to the shoeless, and the often shirtless.
Finch passed Jewel a pastry, and Jewel took it as the mages began their descent. They wouldn’t leave, though. It was the mages who would, when the evening finally fell, turn their hands and their talent to the serious business of light. Their light, their foreign, brilliant light, would speak to the passing day, and brighten the sky in a flurry of color.
And then, when the last of that light faded, the longest day would be over, leaving a pleasant ghost in its wake. Make memories, her mother had said. In the end, they’re all we have. Make good memories. The bad ones will come on their own. Choose, as you can, what you remember.
She couldn’t clearly remember her mother’s face on most days, although she could remember the feel of her arms, the warmth of her smile, the slight thunder of her anger and her worry. She could remember facial expression, but couldn’t hold it long enough to examine chin, or cheek, or shape of forehead.
Mostly, she could remember her mother’s voice, the texture of her words. But her mother and her father returned seldom; her Oma, often.
Enjoy what you have now, her Oma said. Because now is all you have.
This longest day, this now, was Jewel’s answer, to both of the women who had raised her. Her father’s voice was silent. She bit into pastry, left white sugar on her cheeks—it had been an overly ambitious bite—and raised her hand to sky; Finch and Teller followed her wordless direction. Light, blue and green and red, exploded above even the highest of the great trees.
Voices came in a rush, a roar of sound that seldom surrendered distinct syllables. Small children rode shoulders, grabbing hat and hair at the unexpected vantage of height. For a moment, magic was spectacle, miracle, and benison. For Jewel, it was also memory. If she couldn’t see the ghosts of her dead, she could feel them, here. This was how she introduced her den to her family, how she built a bridge of the present that would reach backward and extend forward for as long as they lived.
When they at last gathered and returned to the apartment, they spilled in, their voices still street- loud. Because of this, it was clearer than usual when all talk suddenly trailed into silence. Jewel was at the back of pack, but she pushed her way through to the front—and in the very small space near the door, that took both time and effort.
Seated on the sill of a window they hadn’t bothered to shut because in the humidity of summer, the shutters were too warped to stay closed, was Rath. His arms were folded loosely across his chest, and his eyes were shut; his chin was tilted down as well. He might have been sleeping; Rath had once said he could sleep standing up.
But as they spread out, hesitant to disturb him, he opened one lid.
Jewel crossed the room. There was no uncertainty here; this was her place. “Rath?”
He nodded. He looked old and tired, but he hadn’t sustained any new injuries. Or at least not any obvious ones. “Jay,” he said, deferring to her preferred name while the den was present. He eased himself off the sill, and stretched.
“We were out in the Common,” she told him, signing to her den while she talked. They were curious, of course, but they drifted as far away as the small space allowed. “It’s the longest day,” she added, by way of explanation.
“It is, indeed,” Rath replied gravely. “And there are rites and observances that were ancient before the Empire which are also apparently kept.” He grimaced. “I would have been earlier, otherwise.”
She thought for a moment, and then brightened. “The stone?”
He nodded. “Come,” he told her. “Walk with me.”
She’d been on her feet since just before dawn, but the look on his face forbid mention of the fact. She exhaled, and signed to Finch, who, lingering by the bedroom door, nodded.
They left her home and headed down the hall to the stairs, and from the stairs, into the hall that led to the street. Rath walked slowly, because it was hard to walk quickly in these streets. Although the Common had begun to empty, the taverns had opened their doors, and the streets would not be clear until morning, if that.
Because he walked slowly, Jewel kept pace. She didn’t speak, waiting for Rath; Rath didn’t spea
k until they had crossed a large stretch of the City, wandering from the poor holdings into holdings in which the respectable might choose to live. It was a far cry from the expensive buildings near the Merchant Authority, but the buildings here were not in poor repair, and the streets were both cleaner and emptier.
Rath didn’t seem to worry about being followed, so Jewel relaxed enough to ask him where they were going.
“To the sea,” he said quietly.
“Why?”
He shrugged. “I spent most of today in a cloister, waiting. I need to stretch my legs.”
Jewel didn’t. She wisely said nothing, holding her peace. But she faltered when she saw what he approached: the Sanctum of Moorelas. “Yes,” he said, although he did not look down to see her reaction. “I haven’t seen Moorelas since I was . . . younger.” He stopped walking when he reached the foot of the statue, and looked up. Even in the moonlight, Moorelas was intimidating. “The hope of the world,” Rath said.
“I wonder if he wanted that.”
“What?”
“To bear the weight of the world’s hope.”
Rath chuckled. “You have no desire to be a hero, do you?”
She shrugged. “I did when I was four,” she told him.
“And you are not four now.”
“No. But—it’s hard, I think. To be the only hope the world has. And,” she added softly, “to fail.” She looked up at his stone face for some sign that he understood that burden. His expression, of course, didn’t change.
“He did not fail,” Rath said, looking at the same thing, although what he made of it, Jewel couldn’t tell.
“He didn’t succeed,” Jewel replied.
“No?”
“No. He wounded the god, but even gifted with the sword, he didn’t kill him. And so the god lives.”
“The Hells would be a difficult place without its ruler.”
“I don’t know. It’s the Hells,” she added. “How much worse could it get?”
He laughed.
Jewel, caught in the moment, said, “Maybe you’re right. Morel was human,” she added, using the simpler name. “Maybe humans just aren’t meant to kill gods. And if he didn’t kill the god, he weakened the god enough that he could be defeated.”
“By the other gods.”
“By the other gods combined.” She shrugged again. “Maybe it’s just about trying.”
“And not succeeding?”
“He wasn’t a god,” she told Rath again, slightly annoyed. “He did what he could. He did everything he could. And we’re still here,” she added. “So maybe it was enough. I hope he knew that, before he died. That he’d done his best. That he’d done enough.”
Rath was silent for long enough that Jewel’s gaze dropped from the statue’s face to seek his. She found him watching her in silence, his expression as remote as graven stone. “Would it have been a comfort?” he asked her softly, nothing in his face changing.
“I hope so,” she replied.
He reached into his tunic and pulled out a small bag. This, he handed to her.
“You couldn’t have given me this in the apartment?” she asked, hearing the familiar jingle of coin.
“I could,” he replied. “But I wanted to walk.” He did now, leaving the statue and its many untold stories to walk to the wall. She shoved the bag inside her own shirt, where it nestled against her stomach. Then she trailed after him, sparing Moorelas one backward glance.
“So, you came here with Duster,” he said, leaning on his elbows, facing the sea.
“Yeah. But it was morning, then.” She hesitated and then said, “The stone?”
He nodded. “The rune,” he told her softly, “was not, as you suspected, Old Weston. It was not,” he added, “in any language that was spoken by man.”
“How do you know?”
“I went,” he said quietly, “to the Exalted of Cormaris upon the Isle.”
She was speechless for a long moment. He was not the only son of the god to walk in the City, but he was the spiritual leader of almost all the others, and almost-brother to the King Cormalyn. The Lord of Wisdom. The first words that came, when words returned, were, “And he had time to talk to you?”
“For this, yes.”
“You didn’t go to the Order of Knowledge?”
“No. There are men and women there who might have been able to answer the question, but not with any secrecy.”
“But—but why—”
“A friend suggested that the god-born might know. I did not have the time or leisure to ask the Teos-born; they are not perhaps as civic minded, and they are not easily found when they are absorbed in their studies.”
Teos was the god of knowledge.
“What language, Rath?”
“They call it the Oldest Tongue,” he replied. “It was the tongue the gods spoke, when they walked the world.”
“But—but—”
He turned to look at her. “You understand,” he said softly.
“No. No, I don’t.” She climbed up on the wall, and crossed her legs there, facing his profile. “If this—this stone—was engraved in this tongue . . .”
“Yes?”
“What was it doing in the undercity?”
He chuckled. It was a thin, dry sound. “See? You do understand.”
“Rath, don’t make fun of me. I don’t.”
“You don’t want to,” he replied. But the amusement left his voice when he spoke again. “I think it not an accident,” he said, “that you discovered this, and that the hall from which it was taken was destroyed.”
“But, Rath—”
“The gods no longer walk the world.”
Jewel didn’t privately believe they ever had. If they had, how in the Hells had man survived? She started to say as much, but there was something about him that stopped the words from leaving her mouth. This man was not the man who had found her in the streets, and not the man who had insisted on nursing her back to health.
He was the man, she realized, who wouldn’t heed any warning or plea she might make.
He was the man who had insisted she learn about The Ten, and the Kings, and the gods themselves; about the guilds, and the ranks of the army; about the Merchant Authority, and the way it handled the currencies of different nations.
Recognizing him, she surrendered. “They don’t want people to know. About the gods. About the gods walking the world.”
Rath nodded.
“I don’t really understand why it’s important.”
“No more do I,” he replied. “But the fact that it is important may change things.” She heard the lie in his voice more clearly than she had ever heard it. And she could not call him on it, not here.
“Jay,” he said softly, “I think the time has come that you avoid the maze. Tell your den to do the same.”
“But we can’t—”
“If you’re careful, the money there will keep you for some time.”
She wanted to tell him that it wasn’t enough; they needed to eat, and they outgrew all their clothing; they needed a place to sleep, and things to sleep in. She wanted to tell him that he was wrong. She even tried.
But she understood why he’d brought her, by seeming accident, to the Sanctum of Moorelas. Because ever since she’d seen the crypts, she had been uneasy, and this was his subtle way of forcing her to confront that.
“Rath,” she said, staring out to sea, and seeing, in the bay, the height of the towers, the lights of the day. “What can we do that can support us? We live off the maze, and what we can find there.”
“I took the liberty of leaving a few books in your apartment. Read them. I will be less available for the next little while; do not use that as an excuse not to read. No doubt Teller has already discovered them. Or Finch. I left them in the kitchen,” he added, “where, I suspect, neither Carver nor Duster go, if not forced at knifepoint.”
“Oh, Carver’ll go—but we can’t afford to have him burn the building down aroun
d our ears.”
Rath chuckled, and then stood. “I’m serious, Jewel. The maze, unless there is no other alternative, is done.”
She was silent, but he was not yet finished. He caught her by the shoulders, and held her firmly, but gently, as she sat on the seawall. “Tell me that I’m wrong,” he said. “Tell me that you think I’m wrong. Say it, and I’ll let you be.”
She tried. She honestly tried.
And he watched her, and he knew. But she had grown, and she was not always kind, this Jewel, this den leader. “What are you afraid of, Rath?”
He let her go, withdrawing more than just his hands and the intensity of his demand. He had almost hoped she could do what he had demanded, which was a fool’s hope, a wayward dream.
“Afraid of? The usual things,” he replied.
“The usual?”
He glanced at Moorelas’ face. “Come, Jewel. Home. It’s late.”
She said, “Rath, the gods—” and stopped.
He turned, and he felt, in that moment, the certainty of his own death. Here, across the carvings that detailed the myth and legend of mankind’s greatest warrior, he stepped across the winged backs of the demon-kin, above the blazing swords of the Kialli, and he wanted to turn and walk away; to leave Averalaan, to leave Jewel Markess.
She said, her voice shallow, her eyes in that peculiar wide gaze that he had come, with time, to recognize, “The gods will walk.”
“I’ve been told,” he said softly, “that that’s impossible.”
She didn’t hear him. She didn’t answer.
Answer enough. He did not leave her, and he did not leave the City, but he waited until she could breathe again before he walked her home. She asked him no more questions about the gods, then or ever; he asked her no more questions about the gods, then or ever.
But she had spoken his fear, not her own.
Chapter Five
6th of Emperal, 410 AA The Common, Averalaan
DUSTER LEANED AGAINST THE GIRTH of a great tree, and folded her arms across her chest. She hated the damn heat, and she hated the damn humidity, because the shade wasn’t much good against humidity. She didn’t particularly love the Common; it was too damn crowded all the time. But she liked eating, as long as she wasn’t doing the cooking.
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